Blood In The Water
by It Belongs In A Museum
Summary: Sequel to Black Water. A lot changed for Charlie the night of the formal. The line between hunters and werewolves was drawn, Lydia was acting off, another creature was wreaking havoc, and, oh yeah, she may or may not be losing her mind. And possibly scarier than all of that, she was starting to have actual, human feelings for a certain best friend. Just another day in Beacon Hills.
1. Sweet Dreams

**Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.**

**I just couldn't stay away! I was going to work on other stories for a while, but I just couldn't not write Charlie. I think she's my favorite of my characters, so I've decided to feed my obsession by continuing. As per usual I want to thank BrittWitt16 and her story 'The Wild Side' for the inspiration that was her story. She began her story with a friendship with Lydia, and that idea inspired my and gave me the foundation to start this little adventure. I never would have started this if it wasn't for your brilliance, and you have no idea how grateful I am.**

Chapter 1 – Sweet Dreams

_White. Everything around her was a dazzling white. Not that soft glow that could be considered comforting, but that painful, stabbing glare that made your eyes ache to look into it. And she was cold. Freezing cold._

"_Hello?"_

_The sound of Charlie's voice echoed in her ears, like it was hitting the walls of a cave. But as loud as she called, nobody answered. She was alone. Lifting her hands out in front of her, she began to walk forwards, reaching blindly into the light. The ground beneath her was flat and smooth, almost like tile. Her feet slapped loudly against it as she moved, but that was the only sound that she heard. "Is anybody there?"_

_Once again, she received no response. Without anything to see or hear, she lost all sense of time. She groped around in the blinding white for what could have been minutes or days. Lost. She was completely lost. And not only that, she had no way to find herself. Charlie's heart began to pound in her chest, making it feel as though it was going to break through her rib cage. Her breaths became heavier and deeper, and suddenly her head started to spin. She was having a panic attack._

_Charlie tried to slow her breath down—to take it in quick, short pants—but it was spiraling out of control. She began sucking in air at such a high rate, she felt as though she was swallowing it. Her ears were ringing and where there was no sound before, she now found it deafening. But over everything else she heard the piercing noise of a familiar beeping sound. It wasn't long before she realized it was beeping in time with her heart rate._

_It was the sound of a heart monitor. A sound she was all too familiar with._

_Gradually her heartbeat began to even out and the sound of that beeping slowed down with it. Her breaths became calmer. And as the overwhelming anxiety began to leak out of her, that impossibly white light shining in her eyes began to fade away. At first everything was washed out and blurry—all she could see were shadowed outlines. The light had made tears spring up in her eyes, and when she blinked them away, she could see clearly._

_She was in the hospital. Only it wasn't bustling with doctors or patients or loved ones waiting to hear good and bad news—it was completely empty. Charlie looked up and down the corridor she found herself in. She was completely and totally alone. A strong breeze whipped through the hall, making Charlie shiver. She wrapped her around her waist and tried to pull the flimsy fabric closer in. It was only then that she realized she was wearing one of those flimsy, faded blue hospital gowns._

_Charlie's eyes darted around, looking for any other sign of life. She began picking her way down the hall, and as she moved the beeping noise began to grow louder and louder. It was like a homing beacon, pulling her towards it. Finally she found herself standing in front of room 254. Reading that number made her body physically shake. Her father had died in room 254._

_Taking a deep breath, she locked down that feeling of panic clawing at her throat. She reached for the handle and pushed gently, making it swing open with a resounding squeak. She held her breath as she walked through the door, unsure of what she would find inside. And then when she saw it she knew it could never have been anything else. Lydia._

"_Please be okay," Charlie whispered, taking small steps towards her friend's still form. "I need you to be okay. Please, please be okay."_

_She was lying on one of those hospital beds, those sterile white sheets carefully tucked in around her. She looked almost peaceful with her red hair fanned out around her. She could have been sleeping instead of fighting for her life. There were no bruises or cuts, there was no blood. The serene look on her face turned her into one of those Disney princesses. Except Lydia would make damn sure she had better footwear._

_Charlie almost didn't want to go near her—didn't want to find out how she was—because the answer she got might not be the one she wanted. As much as uncertainty hurt, not getting the right answer would be even worse. Letting out a shaky breath, Charlie approached her and wrapped her hand around Lydia's wrist. Her skin was warm and her pulse was strong. Charlie let out a soft sight of relief. Until she realized something. Lydia wasn't hooked up to any machines. The beeping was coming from somewhere else._

_Slowly, Charlie turned around. There was another bed in the room, but someone had pulled one of those separating curtains around it. She wasn't sure why, but her heart began beating more quickly. There was something on the other side of the curtain—something important. She grabbed hold of the fabric and pulled it to the side, and what she saw made her heart plummet into her stomach. Lying on the bed next to Lydia's was a familiar-looking little girl. Charlie was looking at herself._

_The little girl was lying on top of the sheets, wearing a worn Star Wars T-shirt and ripped jeans, her hair pulled into two messy braids. She was surrounded by tubes and wires and machines—a tube jammed into her throat, electrodes stuck to her, and Leonard the kangaroo tucked under her arm. At that point Charlie thought her heart stopped, but the persistent beeping told her different. She reached forward and pushed some of the hair out of the smaller version of herself's face, ignoring the slight shaking of her hand._

"_Ugh, how cliché."_

_The sound of another voice in the room made Charlie jump in surprise, snatching her hand away from the girl. She spun around and her eyes locked on the other person there. She must have walked straight past him—she didn't know how she didn't see him. Sitting there in one of the guest chairs, legs crossed and idly flipping through a copy of Us Weekly, was Peter Hale. In that moment, something in Charlie's mind changed, like she had been shocked. She was aware—she knew that all of this, the hospital, Lydia, the little girl, Peter…she knew none of it was actually real. She was dreaming—it was all some construct inside her head. But that didn't mean the fear went away. Peter shot her that smug smile of his before continuing._

"_I mean honestly, Charlie," he sighed out. "Are we really going with metaphorical insecurities like this? I thought it would be a little more interesting in your head. Instead I get shoved in a room with blank walls, a coma girl and this—" he waved around the Us Weekly "—this sad excuse for reading material. I mean since when is Brangelina a thing? Brad and Jennifer were perfect for each other. What happened?"_

_Charlie stared at him, eyes wide and frozen in fear. Peter Hale, a man she had watched die hours before, was sitting in front of her making snarky commentary about tabloid headlines. After a few moments of gaping like a fish out of water, her lips found a way to work again. "You—you're supposed to be dead," was all that she managed to force out._

_Peter let out a small scoff and rolled his eyes, like he was disappointed. He flipped the magazine shut and tossed it on the chair next to him. "Really?" he demanded, his voice dripping in contempt. "Our big reunion and that's all you have to say to me?"_

"_What the hell did you expect to hear?" she whispered back, still reeling from his sudden reappearance. "Were we going to hold hands and sing songs? Skip off into the sunset? Go on a road trip and drive off a cliff Thelma and Louise style?"_

_Peter smirked and jerked his head to the side noncommittally. "Would I get to be Thelma?"_

"_The cute and stupid one?" Charlie muttered, narrowing her eyes at him. "Sure. That seems to fit."_

_He let out a laugh and clapped his hands together. "And there it is. That conversational spark that I love oh-so much. You know, I think you would have missed me. At least a little bit."_

"_Just because you like listening to yourself talk doesn't mean everybody else does," she growled. "Why are you here?"_

"_I told you," Peter insisted, looking at her earnestly. "I just want to talk."_

"_What could we possibly have to talk about?"_

_Peter pursed his lips and stared up at the corkboard ceiling, a pensive look on his face. "Oh, I don't know. We've had some good times. We could sit back…reminisce. Maybe an apology. You know, for shooting me. Repeatedly." When she didn't respond, he rolled his eyes again. "You don't have to worry—we're not in the throes of a zombie apocalypse. You're dreaming."_

_Charlie let out a bitter snort. Finally she found her voice, and her rage. She folded her arms across her chest and did her best to look intimidating—not an easy feat given the hospital gown she was wearing. "Yeah," she said with a passive aggressive laugh. "I know I'm dreaming. You know how I know that? Because the last time I saw you were being grilled like a fourth of July hot dog." She paused waiting for a response, but all she got was that same blank, slightly judgmental stare. "Get it?" she prompted. "Because you were lit on fire and you're a were—"_

_Peter gave her a withering look. "Yes, Charlie," he sneered. "I understood the joke. I just thought that kind of tasteless humor was beneath you."_

"_So the mass-murdering psychopath is judging me," she shot back, her lip curling slightly. "Wow. I wonder how much I care. Spoiler alert: Not a lot."_

"_Please," Peter replied, shaking his head at her. "Can we at least try to be civilized? I mean look at me." He gestured to himself. "You shot me. I'm not holding a grudge."_

_Charlie stared at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. Peter was slick, she had to give him that much. And somehow whenever she spoke with him, she felt dirty. "You put Lydia in the hospital," she growled back. "You tried to kill pretty much all of us. Twice. What can I say, that's not the type of thing I let go of easily. I'm petty like that." _

_Peter chuckled, and the sound of it sent a chill running down her spine. Every time she saw him, she got the distinct impression he knew something she didn't. He stood up from his seat and wandered over past Charlie, coming to a stop next to the bed the younger her was lying in. That nagging feeling of anxiety bloomed in her chest. She knew she was dreaming—that none of this was real—but she still felt like he could hurt her. "I've got to say," Peter said, peering down at her small form. "You were a cute kid."_

_Charlie watched him carefully. He braced his hands against the side of the bed and leaned forwards, hovering over little Charlie. "Why are you here?" she demanded angrily._

"_It's your subconscious, Charlie," Peter murmured, not bothering to look at her and not moving from his threatening position. "You tell me."_

"_Maybe I just wanted to punch you in the face one last time," she muttered._

_Peter snorted and a knowing smile at the corner of his lips. "Maybe," he said, nodding to himself. Then he lapsed into a silence. It was like the air was crackling with electricity. Slowly, Peter turned his head so that he was looking at her. "Or maybe I'm here to finish what I started."_

_Instinctively, Charlie's hand flew up to the back of her neck, feeling for the point where Peter's claws had dug into her neck. She expected to feel a row of four large scabs, but the skin was totally completely smooth. Fear shot through her veins, but she didn't even have the time to panic. Before she knew what was happening, Peter was standing directly in front of her, staring down at her with that cruel smile. "You might feel a slight pinch."_

_He opened his mouth and those teeth of his—the ones that had always seemed pointy to her—extended into sharp fangs. Peter lunged forward and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back. A strangled cry erupted from Charlie's throat and she struggled against him, but he was too strong. And she was left waiting for the feeling of teeth cutting through skin._

"Holy shit!"

Charlie gasped for breath and twitched violently as she woke. It had all felt so palpably real. Even when she was dreaming she had known none of it was real, but everything had just been so vivid. Her heart was still racing and a thin sheen of sweat coated her forehead. Immediately her hand went to the back of her neck, her fingers probing around to the skin covering her spine. They came into contact with rough, raised scabs, and she winced heavily at the ache that radiated from the point. But as much as it hurt, Charlie couldn't help but give a sigh of relief. That pain meant that she was still her—that she was still human.

Gradually, that dream she had been so violently ripped out of began to fall away from her like shards of broken glass and she became more aware of her surroundings. Her eyes roved around, taking everything in while her confused brain pieced everything together. At first she felt a twinge of alarm when she realized she wasn't in her room, but then, piece by piece, everything snapped back into place.

She was at the hospital. Not wandering around the hallways chasing ghosts and phantom beeping noises, but sitting in a chair in the middle of the waiting area. The same place she had been all weekend. It made a weird sort of sense that she was in the hospital waiting room. She was in a hospital waiting room the first time her world had imploded, sitting in a chair equally as uncomfortable as the one she now found herself in now. Only that time she had sat there for a few hours. This time it was days.

The longer she sat there, the more convinced she became that waiting rooms were like purgatory. The TVs stuck on that one mediocre cable channel that played nothing but soap operas and the unnecessarily chipper Kelly Ripa, the inescapable smell of industrial cleaning solvents, the annoying squeak of the linoleum cushioning on the chairs—all of it was horrible. But none of it was worse than the faces. You would look around out of every three or four people you would find one with that look—the puffy, purple rings under the eyes from the sheer exhaustion, the stooped shoulders, and the creased foreheads. Those were the ones who had to sit there in suspense—no information, nothing you can do to make things better—and wait for some external force to decide your fate and the fate of the people they cared about. Then that doctor would come out with the white lab coat and clipboard and tell them something that could save them or destroy them. Charlie had been one of those people.

As Charlie slowly blinked her eyes and forced herself into consciousness, she felt her pillow shift underneath her. Charlie blinked against the harsh, fluorescent lights, but she was still forced to squint as it assaulted her retinas. As it turned out, her pillow was especially mobile because it happened to be another person.

Stiles. He had been there as long as she had. The two of them had sat in that waiting area yards away from Lydia's door since the epic showdown at the Hale house, talking, playing cards, or just staying with each other. That is until the bottomless cup of bitter, acidic-tasting hospital coffee stopped doing its job and her eyes started to droop. Charlie's stomach jumped slightly as she looked up at him. Her head was resting on his chest. She could feel it rise and fall as he breathed and the soft, slow thumping of his heartbeat sounded in her ears. He was sprawled out across the seat next to hers in an almost impossible position, with his mouth hanging open and a little stream of drool trailing out of his mouth. Objectively it wasn't the most flattering of poses, but Charlie still couldn't help the tiny smile that pulled at the corner of her lips. Despite everything that had happened to her the past few days—being strangled, stabbed, watching Lydia in that hospital bed, having Allison basically disown her—Charlie somehow felt at least a little bit safe. And she really, really didn't want to move from that spot. Which meant that she probably should.

Charlie tried to get to her feet, but found it a little more difficult than she had anticipated. Stiles's arm was slung over her shoulder and somehow while sleeping he managed to tangle his fingers in her hair. It took about ten minutes and some ridiculous contortions to avoid waking him up, but somehow she managed to do it, leaving him snoring and drooling on the seats. As soon as the weight of her body was gone, Stiles smacked his lips and muttered something incoherent before readjusting so that his leg was draped over the armrest of her seat in a position that couldn't be comfortable. Charlie gave a light snort and watched him for a moment, shaking her head at him. And then she looked next to him, at that slightly deflated 'Get Well Soon' balloon with giant yellow smiley faces on it. He had gone and got it at the hospital gift shop as soon as the doctors said that Lydia would make a full recovery. But it had been almost a day since Stiles bought that balloon,-Saturday had disappeared into Sunday—and Lydia still wasn't waking up. Which was why, as confident as the doctors seemed to be, Charlie had that constant undercurrent of anxiety flooding through her veins. Beacon Hills might have excellent medical facilities, but she doubted very much that any of the staff had taken a course in Lycanthropy 101 during medical school.

Then, all of the sudden, something changed. The lights around her seemed to flare and stabbed at her eyes while an impossible pain erupted behind her forehead. It felt like her head was caving in and about to explode all at once. And then the flashes came. Fire, screams, pain—all of it was existing in her head all at once. Her vision swam and black began creeping in, leaving her with nothing but those images in her brain. Charlie wobbled on her feet, almost falling over before her hand managed to find a nearby chair, steadying herself. She pressed the heel of her other hand to her forehead, like she was trying to push back the pain, and gritted her teeth to hold back the scream. Just as she thought she couldn't bear it any more, just when she thought she would fall to her knees and scream, it vanished.

Charlie opened her eyes and she could see reality again. Her sweaty palm slipped against the smooth plastic of the chair, making her cling on even tighter. She let out some shaky breaths as she steadied herself. The pain subsided, but it left behind a sinking feeling of worry. Why was this still happening? Peter was dead—why was all of that still in her mind?

"Excuse me?" a kind voice said from behind her. Charlie spun around to find an older woman staring at her with concern. "Are you alright?"

Charlie swallowed heavily and nodded. "Y—yeah," she stammered out, still feeling a bit out of breath. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a stress headache." The woman didn't seem to entirely accept the weak explanation and opened her mouth to speak again, but Charlie cut her off. "I just, um, I just need to get some water."

Immediately, she spun on her heel and tripped down the hallway to the bathroom. Luckily the path from the waiting room to the bathroom was a well worn one by that point, otherwise she might have ended up running into a hell of a lot of people. Or walls. Once she stumbled into the room, she kicked open all the stall doors, said a silent thank you to the universe that it was completely empty. She moved back to the front door and threw the deadbolt into the locked position before going to the sinks and splashing an impossible amount of cold water onto her face.

Charlie gripped the sides of the sink, digging her fingers into the porcelain and staring down the drain, like maybe—just maybe—the answers to everything could be hiding down those pipes. But she didn't see anything new. Except maybe for a bit of black mold that probably shouldn't be in a hospital bathroom.

Slowly, Charlie lifted her head and looked at her own reflection. She had certainly looked better. There was a purple bruising color under her eyes from lack of sleep, her skin had a pale, sallow color to it, every last trace of makeup was gone, and her hair was stringy and knotted. Overall not the picture of youthful exuberance she was apparently supposed to be. Hell, even her freckles looked pale. But all that could be chalked up to a couple of sleepless nights in an uncomfortable chair. What really gave her away were the eyes. They looked hollow. Not empty, but there was a sadness behind them that Charlie had never really seen before.

"Suck it up, Oswin," she whispered to herself. "If you break now that would just be pathetic."

Charlie took all those thoughts—the dream, Peter, the flashes that kept invading her mind—and shoved them away, filing them in the 'shit not to be thought about file' in the filing cabinet that was her brain. She splashed water on her face a few more times and made a lame attempt to comb through her hair with her fingers before stepping back and observing her full appearance in the mirror. For some reason the only thing she could think was that Lydia would probably have thrown a fit. She was wearing her usual Converse, a pair of ratty old jeans, and the turtleneck that Mel had dropped off for her earlier that day. She grabbed that hair tie out of the bottom of her pocket and pulled back her hair into a tight ponytail, grateful that the turtleneck could properly conceal her bruises, and took one last breath before walking out the bathroom.

Once out, Charlie pressed herself against the corridor wall and watched for a few moments as people walked back and forth before turning down the hall. To the left, she would find herself back in the waiting area. To the right, she would find herself at the door to Lydia's room. And that scared the crap out of her.

Over the past few days, Charlie had been pretty much everywhere in that hospital. Hell, she had even tried to sneak into the on-call room for a nap. But not once had she ever gone to Lydia's room. She had harassed Lydia's doctors and stolen the charts out of their hands to get a look at the information they had, but she hadn't dared go anywhere near the girl herself. Because each time she took one step towards that door, a tsunami of guilt would crash into her, leaving her breathless.

It was her fault when it came down to it. Peter might have been the one to bite her, but Charlie put her on that field. Those words Peter said to her when she begged him to let Lydia live. 'You're the ones who care about her.' That was what he had said. Which meant that this—all of it—was on her. Lydia was the unwitting collateral damage in Charlie's fight. And the thought of it made Charlie want to vomit. But as bad as seeing Lydia would be, failing her a second time would be even worse.

"Suck it up, Oswin."

That phrase was becoming her mantra now. Like she had to convince herself not to fall apart. Charlie took another deep breath and shifted to the right before heading down the hallway. Her feet felt heavy, like they were encased in lead, as she trudged towards the room. That cold pit she felt building in her stomach grew with every step that she took. By the time she found herself staring through that window into the hospital, her veins had turned to ice.

The Lydia she saw on the other side of that window was not the one she had seen in her dream. She didn't have that perfectly glossy hair, bright red lips, or glowing skin. Quite the contrary. Her hair was a matted, tangled mess and her lips were pale and dry. Again, that sick feeling lurched through Charlie's stomach. Lydia didn't look like Lydia, and Charlie hated it. She hated that bed and those sheets and the needle sticking out of her arm. She hated it all.

The only other person in the room was Lydia's mother. Charlie still didn't know much about the woman, but she was fairly certain Mrs. Martin didn't look quite herself either. She was sitting in a chair next to Lydia's bed, leaning an elbow on the side table and propping up her head as she stared at her daughter through drooping eyelids. Exhaustion was written into every line of her face. By chance she glanced up and saw Charlie in the window, making the girl twitch with surprise and anxiety. The softest ghost of a smile appeared on the woman's face and she lifted a hand, beckoning Charlie to come in. Charlie's stomach began tying itself into knots again as she timidly walked through the door.

"Hi, Charlie," Mrs. Martin murmured in a tired-sounding voice. "It is Charlie, isn't it?"

Charlie swallowed heavily and nodded. She and Mrs. Martin still didn't know each other very well. Or at all, really. For some reason Charlie never ended up spending much time at Lydia's house—they always went to hers or Allison's—and during the time they did spend at Lydia's house, her mother was never there. Though that was probably by design. Lydia did like her privacy. So when Mrs. Martin greeted her, Charlie strode forward. "Yeah," she muttered as Mrs. Martin took her hand and gave it a firm shake. "Yeah, um, I'm Charlie."

"Lydia's told me a lot about you," Mrs. Martin murmured, her eyes straying back to her daughter. She let out a sharp breath that sounded like a cross between a snort and a sigh of frustration. "And by that I mean she's mentioned your name once or twice at the dinner table."

"Yeah," Charlie said, bobbing her head along with her words. "That sounds like Lydia. She's never been much of a 'sharer' I guess."

"No," Mrs. Martin murmured, more to herself than to Charlie. "No, she most certainly is not."

Charlie's eyes were dragged back to Lydia's limp form. There was no movement. None. No signs of life except for the slight movement of her chest. The only real indication of life was the beeping of the heart monitor, and she wasn't even sure she trusted that.

"I'm sorry," Charlie whispered, sending a few fleeting glances in Mrs. Martin's direction. "For not visiting till now—I'm sorry. I….don't do well in hospitals."

A sad, sympathetic smile crossed Mrs. Martin's face. "That's alright," she murmured. "I saw you in the waiting room when I went to get my coffee. I know Lydia would appreciate you being here." A strange look crossed Mrs. Martin's face as she looked at Charlie. Like she had seen something in Charlie's face. "I'll tell you what," she continued. "Why don't I give you a little time alone with her?"

For some reason a sensation of panic suddenly shot through Charlie. Like she was afraid she might break Lydia if she was left alone with her. "W—what?" she stammered out in confusion.

Mrs. Martin grabbed her purse and stood up. "I need to get another cup of coffee. Would you mind watching her till I get back?" Mrs. Martin didn't allow for an answer. She strode to the door with determination but paused as soon as she got to the doorframe, sparing Charlie one more look. She sighed and rapped her knuckles against the door a couple of times. "You should try talking to her," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "It helps."

And with that Charlie was left alone in the room. For some reason she felt like a thirteen-year-old on her first babysitting gig. What if something went terribly, terribly wrong? Charlie bit her lip and folded her arms across her chest, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Seeing Lydia like that—it made her want to run. To sprint out the door and keep going until she got home. Or to Maine. Anywhere to get her as far away from the guilt as possible. And there was a time not so long ago when she probably would. But she couldn't to that. She couldn't run—not anymore. Lydia deserved better than that. And she was better than that now.

Gnawing on her fingernails, Charlie slowly shuffled towards Mrs. Martin's now vacant chair. She perched on the seat and quickly lifted her feet from the ground, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She sat there for a few minutes, just watching her, and an ache began to form in her throat and in her chest. It physically hurt to look at her. And everything in the room was so unbearably quiet. Lydia was supposed to be talking and laughing and criticizing her footwear. Charlie sat there a long, long time before she said anything. One minute turned into five turned into twenty. "I'm sorry it took me so long to show up."

"You can't hear me," she muttered, never taking her eyes off her friend. "I know you can't hear me. I never really got why people would talk to people in comas—you know, in the movies and stuff? It's not like it served any purpose. I always just thought it was a narrative tool the writers would use to reveal information to the audience. Turns out I was wrong. They did it because it made them feel better." At that point Charlie's eyes started to sting as they filled with tears. She sucked in a long breath and squeezed her eyes shut, causing one small tear to leak out of each eyes. She didn't bother to wipe them away as they coursed down her face. "So the doctors said you'd be totally fine like a day ago," Charlie continued, forcing her voice to stay casual and idly playing with her shoelaces. "I know you like being 'fashionably late', but this hardly seems like the time, does it? So would just wake the hell up and be okay? For me? Please?"

Charlie's voice cracked on that last word. Even to her own ear she sounded desperate. And why shouldn't she? She was desperate. She sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose. The heart monitor only served to show just how quiet everything else in there was. It was oppressive, and she felt a need to fill that silence.

"So a lot happened since the last time we talked," she muttered under her breath. "I shot a guy like eight times, so that's new. Plus there's a fairly decent chance that I'm going completely batcrap crazy. I'm talking the whole deal—hallucinations and everything. And now I'm talking to myself, which isn't exactly disproving that theory." Charlie wrapped her arms even tighter around her knees, curling into a ball like she was trying to block out the rest of the world. "Allison's not talking to me," she continued, her voice barely a whisper. "I've left her like a hundred messages, but she hasn't picked up or called me back. Honestly, I think she might never call me back after." Charlie dug her nails into the flesh of her calves, that slight pain providing a bit of an emotional release. "I've told a lot of lies and I've hurt a lot of people. And honestly I'm not even sure I want Allison to forgive me. Because I deserve it. For what happened to you—I definitely deserve it."

Charlie paused and stared at Lydia, like she expected to get a response. Part of her was sure Lydia would suddenly sit up, let out a loud, musical scoff, flip her hair over her shoulder, and tell Charlie she was being a total idiot and to stop whining. But that didn't happen.

"So Allison and Scott are back together," Charlie barreled on. "Or at least I think they are. Neither of them have told me specifically, but I think the spit-swapping was a fairly good indicator. And speaking of all that gooey romantic crap, there might have been a bit of development." She pressed her lips together into a small 'o' and blew out a long breath. "Remember how you kept saying that I some sort of emotionally stunted mutant alien because I never really had a crush on any of the drooling cavemen that occupy Beacon Hills High? Well that's sort of changed."

"Remember how I got you to go to the dance with Stiles? Well there's kind of something I didn't tell you about that. I didn't like that plan. I know I came up with it, but I didn't like it at all. And my emotionally constipated self didn't really get why. Until I kissed him."

"I know, right?" Charlie exclaimed with false enthusiasm. "I mean who the hell would have expected for that to happen? He definitely didn't. I'm actually pretty sure the only person who expected it less than him was me. And now I don't have any freaking clue what to do with these…..feelings. You know me—I need a decoder ring when it comes to this sort of stuff. You're my decoder ring. So you need to wake up. Right now."

Still nothing. "Okay," Charlie murmured almost anxiously. "Okay—that's not enough incentive for you? You need more than that? Try this on for size. Lydia, if you don't wake up, I'll start wearing orthopedic shoes. I'll start wearing Crocs. I swear I will."

Even that wasn't enough. Charlie uncurled from that little ball and placed her feet back on the ground before dragging the chair up to the side of the bed. Leaning forwards, she rested her arms on the bed in front of her, laying them out flat and resting her shin on her folded hands. After a few minutes she reached out one hand, linking some of her fingers with Lydia's cold, motionless ones. "You know, this is probably the first completely honest conversation I've had in months," she whispered. "And the only person I can have it with is unconscious. How sad is that? But then again I guess you can relate. I mean I know you better than pretty much anyone else, and I've just scratched the surface. Who knows, maybe someday we'll be able to sit down and be totally open. No secrets." Charlie felt her throat begin to ache, that sob of anxiety and grief threatening to burst forth at any moment. "I love you, Lydia. I can count the number of people I've said that to on less than one hand. And half of those people are dead now. Don't make it two-thirds. I need you to be okay—please be okay."

Charlie's vision began to cloud as her eyes began to fill with tears again. She rested her forehead against the cool sheets and tried to keep it all in—to force it all back inside of her. Then, all of the sudden, there was a resounding squeak as the door to Lydia's room swung open. Charlie quickly threw herself up into the sitting position to see who the intruder was only to find Mrs. McCall walking in, staring down at her clip board. Her hair was frizzing slightly and her shoulders were stooped like she was tired. She was probably nearing the end of a shift. After closing the door behind her, Mrs. McCall looked up from her notes. As soon as her eyes fell on Charlie she jumped in alarm, placing her hand over her heart and breathing heavily. Charlie quickly wiped those last few tears again to hide them, but she was too slow.

"Oh my God!" Mrs. McCall said, holding a hand out in some sort of gesture of apology. "I'm—I'm so sorry! I didn't see anybody in here—I would have knocked—" The shocked expression on her face quickly morphed into one of sympathy. "It's—it's Charlie, right?"

"That's what my aunt keeps telling me," Charlie murmured. "She doesn't have any reason to lie, so I believe her most days."

Mrs. McCall gave her a weird look and nodded. "Right. I remember you from the last minute super-secret chemistry project that I'm pretty sure was fake. Scott said you gave him a suit for the dance. I mean one that wasn't salvaged from a garbage disposal. That was—that was really nice of you."

"Not really," Charlie said with a snort that was probably a little to flemmy. She wiped at her eyes again and cleared her throat. "It was more of a public service type thing. Lydia here—" she jerked a thumb in Lydia's direction, her hand tightened into a fist to keep it from shaking "—she probably would have had a seizure if she looked directly at that other one."

"H—yeah," Mrs. McCall breathed out, issuing forth a slightly relieved laugh. But then that relief disappeared again. She looked down at the chart scanning it carefully. "This says that she's going to be fine. There's no reason she shouldn't be awake right now—the doctor's are coming in to do some tests and—" Mrs. McCall suddenly looked up from the chart, a wince carved into the lines of her face. "Right," she bit out pointing a finger at Charlie awkwardly. "That's not going to make you feel better, is it? What I'm trying to say is it's just a matter of time. Before she wakes up, I mean."

Charlie pulled nervously at the end of her ponytail and nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I know," she whispered. She lifted her eyes from Lydia to look up at Mrs. McCall. "Do you guys have a stopwatch or countdown clock or something? Crystal ball? Hell, I'll take a Ouija board or Taro cards."

"I'm afraid they didn't figure crystal balls into this year's budget," Mrs. McCall said with a sheepish shrug of the shoulders. She pressed her lips together in a thin line and walked around the bed, placing a reassuring hand on Charlie's shoulder. Charlie twitched slightly upon feeling it there, but Mrs. McCall didn't remove it. "I know it seems like forever now, but I promise as soon as she's awake it'll seem like nothing at all. Like the blink of an eye, or, you know, the length of a Sarah McLaughlin song. Time's funny like that."

"Yeah tell me about it," Charlie murmured. "Sarah McLaughlin songs can't be more than four minutes, but they feel like they last forever."

An involuntary snort forced it's way out of Mrs. McCall's nose and she squeezed Charlie's shoulder. Normally Charlie would have shrugged the hand away, but for some reason this time she let it rest there. As jumpy as Mrs. McCall seemed, there was something calming effect about her. Like some sort of aura of maternal comfort. After a few minutes, Mrs. McCall gave a sigh. "I hate to do this to you," she said carefully, "but we do need to run some tests. Just standard stuff. Nothing you need to worry about."

Charlie's hand reached forwards and wrapped around Lydia's. The differences between them were startling. Lydia's was small, cold, and limp, the fingers perfectly manicured. Charlie's on the other hand was a bit larger and warm, and the nails had been bitten to the quick. "I'm going to worry anyway," she muttered.

"Yeah. Yeah, I figured as much. I mean, I would too."

Slowly, Charlie released Lydia's hand and got to her feet, dragging them as she moved back towards the door.

"Charlie," Mrs. McCall called out after her, making her pause in the doorway. "As soon as anything changes—as soon as you can come in—I'll let you know."

Charlie's lips quirked up in the faintest attempt at a smile and she nodded. "Thanks."

Upon exiting Lydia's room, Charlie didn't immediately return to the waiting area. Her head was aching. Somewhere between the fever-inducing dreams and the crying, she had become dehydrated. And if there was one thing that she learned after everything she had been through with her dad, it was that chocolate kind of helped. She filled that empty void inside of her with more Snickers than should under normal circumstances be physically possible. She came up to the machines and quickly shoved some coins into the drink machine. Snatching up her water, she turned to the next machine over and pressed her lips together in a thin smile. "'Sup, Bob," she muttered, patting her hand against the glass of the now familiar machine. "Old, dependable Bob." She shoved in the asked for $1.25 and watched as that little corkscrew thing twisted and dropped a Snickers in the bottom. As per usual, it spun a little bit too far, but this time the usual second Snickers didn't fall with that satisfying thunk. Instead it stayed there hanging precariously over the edge, but remained firmly in place. And then a swooping feeling of disappointment washed through her. Like this was yet another mini-betrayal. "Seriously?"

Charlie banged her hand against the front of the machine, making it shift slightly. The extra Snickers wobbled slightly, but once again didn't move. So Charlie hit it again. And again. Until she wasn't sure what she was hitting anymore. Maybe it was Peter, maybe it was herself. But she just kept slamming her palm into the machine until long after her hand began to hurt. She wasn't sure what made her do it—some bizarre mix of rage, guilt and heartache. And she would have gone on for much longer—probably until her hand started bleeding—but then she heard something that made her stop. A light thunk.

That second Snickers had fallen to the bottom of the machine and was waiting for her. Charlie frowned down at the candy bars, still breathing heavily from the exertion. Strangely enough, she felt the tiniest bit better. She had needed a release, some way to let go, at least a little bit, of all those things she was bottling up inside of her. And Bob had just given her that. Again, she patted her hand against the glass again. "Thanks, Bob."

Shoving one of the candy bars in her back pocket and tucking the water bottle under her arm, Charlie made her way back to the waiting area. By the time she got there the first Snickers was already long gone, the wrapper tossed in one of the trash cans on the way. Or maybe Charlie had swallowed it. She really couldn't be sure. When she did finally arrive at that row of chairs, she found Stiles awake again, drumming his fingers against the armrest, craning his neck and twisting his head around like he was looking for someone. When his eyes fell on her, his face collapsed into one of confused relief. "Where did you go?" he demanded. "I woke up and you were just like 'poof'!" He waved his hands around theatrically. "Gone."

Wordlessly, Charlie shoved her hand in her back pocket and pulled out the Snickers bar, holding it out for him to see. "Sustenance run," she replied. "Gotta keep those blood sugar levels up." She strode over and collapsed into the chair next to him, pulling up both her legs so she was sitting cross-legged. She began to open that second candy bar, but she felt Stiles's eyes on her, studying her.

"It takes you that long to buy a candy bar?" he demanded skeptically.

"I went to the bathroom," she continued with a shrug of her shoulders. Charlie wasn't sure why she was being so evasive. But if Stiles hadn't noticed her creep out of Lydia's room, she wanted to keep her thoughts and actions to herself. For now at least.

"So you spent like twenty minutes in the bathroom?" His voice wasn't totally devoid of judgment, making Charlie give a loud groan. "Man, what the hell do girls do in the bathroom?" he mused. "Is there like some sort of magical door that leads to Narnia?"

"You'll never know," Charlie said with a prim shrug. "Girls aren't allowed to tell guys what goes on in the bathroom. It's a part of the girl code. Sacred."

Stiles snapped his fingers and pointed at Charlie accusingly, giving her a weird look. "Hey! I made you an honorary bro!"

Charlie frowned and made a face at him. "Does that mean you want to be an honorary chick?"

Stiles's stared at her for a moment, his mouth hanging open slightly. "Yeahhhhhh, I think I'll give that one a pass. Otherwise I think you'd make me start talking about 'Downton Abbey' and I don't think I'm ready for that now. Or, you know, ever."

A cheeky smile spread across his face. That one that always made her want to smile too. Only today she didn't feel like smiling. Charlie chuckled, trying to seem as normal as possible, but Stiles seemed to pick up on the fact that there was something off. He shifted in his seat so that he was staring directly at her. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

Charlie bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders casually. "Nothing."

"Bullshit," Stiles said, shaking his head at her. "I am well versed in all the faces of Charlie Oswin and that—" he waved a finger in her face "—that is your 'something's wrong' face. Though at this point I should probably start calling it you 'something's more wrong than usual' face."

There were so many things wrong Charlie wouldn't have known where to start even if she wanted to tell him. She should tell him about the dream. She should tell him about the hallucination. She knew she should. But she also knew Stiles. If she told him, he would go into his frantic conspiracy theory phase and try to fix her when she wasn't even sure there was anything broken yet. And at the same time she just didn't want him to know—she didn't want anybody to know. Because then they might start looking at her differently. "I told you," she insisted. "Nothing. Other than the obvious."

"No," Stiles persisted. "There's something wrong. I know you enough to know that."

Charlie looked away from him and gave a long, shaky breath. She would tell the truth, but she would really freaking vague about it. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with hesitancy. "You may have noticed this about me be now," Charlie murmured, "but I'm not very good at being vulnerable."

Stiles's mouth dropped open in mock shock. "What?!" he exclaimed. "This is totally new information! I always thought you were a giant, fuzzy pile of hugs and love and adorable baby kittens whose ears and feet are too big for their body!" He scrunched up his face into a perplexed expression. "That metaphor might have gotten away from me."

Charlie let out a light snort and rolled her eyes before continuing. "The point is, my dad always used to tell me that life doesn't give us anything that we can't handle. You just need to be strong. No matter how much it hurts, just suck it up and—and soldier through. That's the only way you can deal with it. And that's what I did, I—I handled it. That's what I've always done. I always thought that whatever came my way, I could handle it."

Stiles's jaw twitched as he listened to her speak, his eyes filling with concern. "And now?"

"What if it's too much?" Charlie wasn't looking at him as she said the words, instead staring at her hands in her lap as she idly picked at her already nonexistent fingernails, but she felt his eyes on her, like they were boring into her skin.

"You're Charlie Oswin," he said suddenly, as if it explained something. "When life gives you lemons, you throw the lemons back in life's face and tell it to bring you something that's actually useful! And then something usually bursts into flame. It's not too much. Not for you."

Charlie's eyes fell shut and she let out a light snort. Apparently Stiles had some sort of confidence in her. And she really couldn't understand it, seeing as she didn't have it herself. "How do you know that? I'm not a freaking robot, Stiles, I can't—"

The look in his eyes suddenly shifted from complete surprise to something much softer—sympathetic, even. "Hey," he murmured, looking at her pointedly. "All that stuff that happened to you before? Your dad? You had to go through all of that by yourself. You have no idea how—I mean after my mom died if I had to—" He suddenly cut himself off, making a strange expression. "Look, all that other stuff," he continued, "you had to go through all of that alone. You've got something now you didn't have then."

"What?" Charlie asked in confusion, folding her arms across her chest and sinking lower in her seat.

"Wha—are you serious?" The look Stiles gave her next could only be described as offended. "Me," he growled, waving a finger at his own face. "I'm talking about me—you've got me."

"Oh," Charlie whispered, bobbing her head slightly. She glances at him slyly out of the corner of her eyes. "Is that supposed make me feel better?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her, his mouth hanging open a bit. "Wha—yes!" he spluttered, almost angrily. "That's totally supposed to make you feel better! I give support—I can support you! I—I am very, very, very supportive!" Charlie bit her lip to fight back the laugh, her face scrunching up from the effort. When Stiles saw that now familiar expression, he let out a loud scoff. "Seriously? You're seriously messing with me now? I hate you, you know that? I freaking hate you."

"Wow," Charlie exclaimed. "You're being really insensitive during a difficult time for me."

At that point Stiles's face reached a new shade of red. He shoved his fist in his mouth to block the sound of a strangled scream. And then, to Charlie's surprise, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in so that her head was resting on his shoulder. Charlie's stomach clenched slightly at the sudden proximity, but she didn't pull away. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"I'm comforting you," Stiles replied bluntly. "Now deal with it."

At first it was kind of uncomfortable. Charlie sat there completely rigid, all her muscles tensed up. She was highly aware of her body and his—their proximity, where they touched, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. It created a sort of internal anxiety. Her heart started beating a little faster and her skin was tingling slightly, like she was hyper-aware. This was why she tried to avoid feelings, especially unrequited ones. They made everything awkward, like every single action had an agenda, intentional or otherwise. Like there was a constant subtext to every word spoken or gesture made. It sucked. It sucked because it meant that she couldn't just hang out with him anymore.

But then something changed. Stiles's arm tightened around her and she relaxed into him and they were both just there. They sat that way for a long time, not saying anything or moving at all. And Charlie felt a warmth spreading through her. She did feel comforted. She felt protected. That wasn't really something she was used to feeling.

"Hold on," Stiles said suddenly. Charlie looked up to find him staring at that TV in confusion. "Since when is Angela with Damien?" he demanded, gesturing at the soap opera currently playing. "She and Richard just got engaged. They were totally in love! What happened?"

Charlie snorted and shook her head. Being stuck in that waiting area was messing with their brains. "That's not Angela," she replied. "That's her long-lost evil twin Nikki. She and Damien are gonna kill Angela, have Nikki take her place, and then steal all Richard's money."

"Wha—since when is there an evil twin?"

"That's what happens when you fall asleep for a few hours," Charlie said with a shrug.

"But they can't get rid of Angela and Richard—those two are the best part of the show!" Then Stiles seemed to hear the words coming out of his mouth because he paused, giving Charlie a sheepish look. "What? I'm invested now."

Charlie smiled and rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."

Stiles just shrugged. "You know when you say that, it kind of sounds like a compliment."

The two of them sat like that for a long while, watching 'Giant Explosion of Romance and Murder'. Or at least that's what she thought the soap was called. And Charlie realized why they always played soap operas in hospital waiting rooms. It was a good distraction. Those shows were like Stockholm Syndrome—no matter how much you hate them, if you watch more than two episodes, you end up getting sucked in whether or not you want to. It numbs the thoughts.

As time dragged on, Stiles fell asleep again. It was actually pretty impressive, his ability to fall asleep anywhere and everywhere. And he had started drooling again. Once he was asleep, though, all those anxieties started coming back. There was nothing to distract her anymore. Charlie watched to door to Lydia's room intently, watching who exited and entered. Mrs. Martin got back with a huge cup of coffee, doctors and nurses, including Mrs. McCall, filed in and out, and some man she didn't really recognized walked in and never came out. But as soon as that man went in, Mrs. Martin left again, leaving Charlie the conclusion that she might actually meet Lydia's father. After a while she stood up again and stared at the floor as she paced back and forth. But when she finally looked up, she found Mrs. McCall walking towards her. Immediately Charlie stopped her pacing, spun on her heel and walked directly towards the woman.

"What is it?" she demanded, not letting the nurse get a word out. "How is Lydia—is she okay? What's changed?"

"Slow down," Mrs. McCall said lifting her hands in the air. "Lydia's awake. The doctors have run the usual diagnostics and she's fine. She's in some pain—she's lost a lot of blood and she's still weak, but—"

"But she's going to be okay, right?" Charlie stammered out, interrupting her. "Lydia's going to be okay?"

Mrs. McCall reached forward and grabbed both of Charlie's shoulders, forcing her to calm down. "She's fine. She's going to make a full recovery."

Charlie's shoulders sagged as some of that impossible degree of tension flooded out of her. She lunged forward and wrapped Mrs. McCall into a tight, unexpected hug. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Mrs. McCall patted Charlie's back awkwardly. "It was my pleasure. Believe me."

Charlie released the woman and took a step back, running her hands through her hair. "Can I see her now? Please?"

Mrs. McCall nodded urgently. "Absolutely. She's ready for visitors. You can go right—"

Charlie didn't bother listening to the end of the sentence. She immediately darted around Mrs. McCall and sprinted the few yards that divided her from Lydia's room. Grabbing hold of the door handle, she wrenched it open violently, making it slam loudly into the wall. She ignored the sound, her eyes searching for the one thing she cared about at the moment.

Lydia was sitting up in bed, propped up by a few pillows. Some more color had returned to her cheeks, but she was still pale and her hair was a mess. But she had that expression on her face—the sarcastic, slightly displeased one that she should probably have patented. When Lydia saw Charlie, a look of mild relief spread across her face. "Charlie, thank God," she said with a small roll of the eyes. "Finally somebody who might actually be able to answer my question. Where are all the hot doctors—the McDreamys and McSteamys? Television has promised me hot doctors." She lifted her hands in the air and looked around questioningly. "Where are they? Because I don't see them." For the first time in what felt like years, a full grin split across her face, making Lydia wrinkle her nose at Charlie. "What's that look about," Lydia said, gesturing at her face.

Ignoring her, Charlie strode forward, brushing past that unknown man, and threw her arms around Lydia, pulling her into a tight, but careful hug. Lydia didn't hug back, leaving her arms hanging at her sides. "Um, Charlie," she trilled in that musical tone of hers. "Your arms are doing something weird."

"I'm hugging you," Charlie mumbled into her friend's shoulder. "This is a hug—we're hugging."

"Yeahhhh," Lydia drawled out, "but we don't hug."

"We do after near-death experiences," Charlie replied bluntly. She continued to hold on to Lydia, and after a few more moments she felt arms wrapping around her as well. And soon Lydia was clinging to her. As much as she tried to be that cold, unflappable, invincible fashionista, deep down she was just a scared little girl who had almost died.

It was the sound of a throat being cleared that made them finally separate. The two girls pulled apart to fins a man standing over them, his arms folded across his chest. "Sorry to interrupt this—" he pointed back and forth between the two of them before turning to Charlie "—but who are you?"

Charlie made a face at him and crossed her arms as well. "I could ask you the same thing."

The man blinked in surprise, a bit taken aback by Charlie's standoffishness. Lydia let out a loud groan. "Oh my God," she whined. "Dad, this is Charlie, my best friend. Charlie, this is my dad."

"Okay," Charlie said, nodding to herself. "I think I've seen pictures of you. I guess I didn't recognize you without the giant 'x' in red Sharpie on your face."

Mr. Martin ignored her and turned to face Lydia. Charlie watched the following interchange like it was a tennis match, her head snapping back and forth with each exchange of commentary. "Why have I never heard of her before?" Mr. Martin demanded.

Lydia quirked an eyebrow at him. "Let's go with 'proximity'. Or 'presence'. Or maybe 'lack of interest'."

"Lydia, I'm your father," he insisted. "I think I should know who you're spending your time with."

"Really?" Lydia said, looking at him with wide eyes. "Since when?"

"Since you were attacked and spent the weekend in a coma," he growled.

Lydia pursed her lips and jerked her head to the side noncommittally. "A girl needs her beauty sleep."

Charlie looked Lydia up and down, taking in the sweaty hair and remainder of eye makeup that had crusted under her eyes, and eyed her skeptically. "Really? That's what you were doing?"

Lydia turned to Charlie, smiling that 'I fantasizing about killing you' smile she sometimes wore. "Yes, Charlie," she bit out through bared teeth. "That was exactly what I was doing. And can you do me a favor? That turtleneck? Burn it. Right now. The incinerator's in the boiler room."

But Mr. Martin wasn't done yet. "Look, Lydia—"

"Dad," Lydia interrupted, flashing him a tight smile. "I think I need another blanket. Would you go get me one? They keep them way, way at the other side of the hospital. All the way on the other side."

Mr. Martin sighed in resignation and scratched absently at his forehead. Charlie almost felt bad for the guy—he was just trying to help—but she knew better than to say anything. Lydia didn't hold grudges for no reason. "Alright," he said, nodding in defeat. "You girls talk amongst yourselves. I'll be back soon."

An audible sigh of relief escaped from Lydia when the door closed behind Mr. Martin, and Charlie soon found out why. She needed answers. The trauma of what had happened to her, physical and mental, had left a giant, gaping hole in her memory after she left Stiles to find Jackson. And she was asking Charlie to fill it. Before she knew it, Charlie was lying again. Well, not lying per se, but leaving out the biggest truth of them all. As far as Lydia knew, she got attacked by an animal and Jackson found her and brought her to the hospital. That was it.

By the time her dad got back again with that entirely useless blanket, exhaustion had crept up on Lydia again. But, as Lydia did with everything, she decided to fight it, declaring that she was going to take a shower.

"You—you want help getting in the shower?" Mr. Martin asked, desperate to help in some way.

Lydia paused for a moment where she was perched on the edge of the bed. "Maybe if I was four," she bit out as she shuffled by him to the bathroom door. "And still taking bubble baths."

"R—right," Mr. Martin stammered out as she pushed past him. "I'll just wait outside then. Where it's…..slightly less sarcastic."

The door to the bathroom slammed, leaving Charlie and Mr. Martin alone together. He looked at her questioningly, like she could somehow unlock the secret to Lydia's bitterness towards him. "Dude, don't look at me," she said, throwing her hands in the air. "I haven't got any explanations for you. I just got here."

Mr. Martin gave a small grunt of disappointment and turned to the door that led out into the hall and waiting area, followed immediately by Charlie. Mrs. McCall was right outside, sorting through some medication. Charlie gave her a warm smile of thanks and mouthed the words 'thank you'. Mrs. McCall returned the smile and murmured a quiet 'you're welcome' before her eyes shifted to something right over Charlie's shoulder. Mr. Martin was waving her over. "Excuse me?" He gestured towards the waiting area, indicating at none other than one Stiles Stilinski.

Charlie had to physically repress a guffaw when she observed the scene before her. Somehow in his sleep Stiles had managed to drape himself over three separate chairs, the wooden armrests digging into his back in a way that could not be comfortable. His head was sagging to the ground, his mouth was hanging open and an arm and leg were both dangling off the side of the chairs. It was kind of a miracle that he hadn't careened off the side. He kept smacking his lips and murmuring something under his breath that she couldn't quite hear.

"He's been here all night?" Mr. Martin demanded.

"He's been here all weekend," Mrs. McCall corrected. "Both of them have."

Mr. Martin's mouth opened and closed a few times, clearly confused, making Charlie roll her eyes. "I'll take care of it before the drool causes a slip hazard or something." Leaving the two adults, she strode across the waiting room and nudged his leg with the toe of her shoe. "Stiles, wake up. I've got news.

But Stiles didn't wake up. He shifted on the chairs and let out a low moaning sound. "You're dirty," he said, followed by a suggestive chuckle. The nurse who was emptying the trash right by Stiles's head gave him a strange look while Charlie's hand flew up, clapping over her mouth. Holy crap. Holy crap. It didn't take much to realize what was happening. Stiles was having a sex dream. Charlie shoved her fist in her mouth to force back the sobs of laughter. Stiles chuckled lewdly again and started unconsciously blowing kisses at the unsuspecting nurse, who now looked more than slightly perturbed by the situation.

"Don't worry," Charlie said, nodding at the woman. "I've got this."

It was Charlie's turn to be on the receiving end of a strange look. The nurse quickly collected the trash and scurried away, leaving Charlie and Stiles alone. Charlie snatched her half-empty water bottle from where she had left it under her seat, removed the cap, and upended it over Stiles's head. The reaction was instantaneous.

"Gaah! Wha—what's happening! Oh my G—Ugh!"

Stiles lifted his hands above his face, trying to protect himself from the stream being poured over him, but he just ended up fighting with the 'Get Well Soon' balloon and almost falling out of his seat. Charlie righted the water bottle again before bringing it to her lips and downing the rest of the contents. Wiping at his face, Stiles blinked the rest of the water out of his eyes.

"Rise and shine, Stilinski," Charlie sang out. "Sorry about the cold shower, but it kind of sounded like you needed it."

"Mmph—Charlie?" Stiles muttered, peering up at her. Then all of the sudden, his eyes shot open, going so wide she almost thought they were going to pop out of his head cartoon-style. Stiles began to flail about slightly as he tried to sit up straight. "Ch—Charlie! Hey, how's it going? What are you doing here? In the waiting room. Where we—where we were….waiting. And that's all."

Charlie wrinkled her nose slightly at his rambling answer, but went ahead and shrugged. "I was performing a public service," she replied lightly. "Preventing the nurses from being harassed by an unconscious sixteen-year-old."

Stiles, who was still in the process of waking up, looked up at her in confusion. "Huh?"

Charlie sighed and perched on the seat next to him. "Stiles, has anybody ever told you that you talk in your sleep?"

His mouth began opening and closing, like a fish dying on the floor of a boat. "What—what did you hear?" he asked, his eyes darting around evasively. "Not that there was anything to hear. But if you did hear something it totally, totally wasn't what it sounded like—what did you hear?"

"Oh," Charlie snorted, "I heard enough."

Stiles paled visibly. "Enough—what do you mean by that? That's, like, super-vague and anxiety provoking."

"Enough to give you crap for at least a week," Charlie said with a smirk. "Gladys looked pretty traumatized."

"Oh," he muttered. For some reason he seemed to regain his calm, or at least some of it. He was still flushed with embarrassment, but not freaking out. "Okay. That's—that's, I mean, wow, that's—that's—" He jumped up to his feet and pointed down the hall. "I'm—I'm gonna go get myself some food. Over there. Far, far away from—" he waved his hand around, indicating at the waiting area "—from right here. So, yeah. Okay, then."

With that he jumped out of his seat and careened down the hall, leaving Charlie staring after him. "Stiles!" she called out after him. "Stiles, wait! There's something I've got to—! Lydia, she—!"

But it was too late. At that point Stiles couldn't hear her and she was totally alone. Charlie let out a low groan and pulled her knees up to her chin. She drove her hands into her hair and pulled slightly, letting it be a release for her frustrations. "That's just great, Charlie," she muttered to herself. "Start teasing the guy you like about the sex dream he had. That's definitely a totally solid plan. It makes perfect sense. Why would anybody not do that?"

Letting out a loud huff, Charlie curled up in a tight ball and snuggled into the cushion of the seat. Why had she never learned to be an actual, proper human being with normal feelings, appropriate comments, and at least some degree of verbal filter? Why couldn't she just be a functional human being for half a day? It was like there was something deep, down inside of her that was just….off. She looked up at that balloon with all those smiley faces staring down at her. "What the hell are you looking at?" she muttered bitterly. "Stop smiling." She batted the balloon away from her, trying to get it to leave her alone, but it slowly floated back into place. Like it was mocking her.

She wrapped her arms around her legs, pulling them in close and rested her forehead on her knees. "I'd like to disappear now."

The seconds ticked by, and Charlie began to wonder if Stiles was actually going to come back. She began to drum her fingers against her legs impatiently, her mind going in a circular track of regret. Until something suddenly broke through it.

CRASH!

Charlie's head snapped up suddenly at the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. "What the hell—"

Frowning in confusion, Charlie got to her feet and began moving in the direction of the noise to investigate. She passed Lydia's door and was just about to turn the corner into the next hallway when she heard something else. Something much more harrowing. An otherworldly, piercing shriek ripped through the hospital, making Charlie skid to a stop. She knew that scream.

"Lydia?!"

Turning on her heel, Charlie sprinted back down the hallway. She collided with door to the hospital room and exploded through it. She spun around, her eyes raking over every single corner of the room looking for somewhere Lydia could hide, but the room was completely empty. Then she heard the shower running and careened into the bathroom.

"Lydia?!" She ripped the shower curtain back, but all she found on the other side was an empty tub, slowly filling with clear water. The droplets from the shower head sprayed outwards and clung to her hair. Charlie slowly stepped back from the shower, and as she did, a cold gust of air hit her in the face. She turned to find herself confronted with a single window thrown wide open and leading out to a dark forest of menacing, twisted branches. Charlie ran to the window, leaning out of it as far as she could go and looking for anything—a broken branch, a discarded towel, a set of footprints—anything that could tell her where her friend went. But there was nothing. "Lydia!"

The only reply her cry received was its own echo, reverberating against that wall of trees. Her heart began to hammer in her chest and she looked up at the moon. It wasn't quite full, but she felt it staring down at her like a threat. Charlie's breaths started to come out quick and panicked and she called out again, even though she knew there would be no response. It was only when she heard the slam against the wall behind her that she finally turned around.

Stiles and Mrs. McCall had forced their way into the tiny bathroom as well, and they were both looking at her with wide eyes. It was Stiles who spoke first. "Charlie, wha—what happened."

Charlie had to suck in a few breaths before she had enough oxygen to speak the words. But the way Stiles's eyes were delving into hers, he already knew the answer. Charlie swallowed heavily and shook her head. "Lydia," she said, her voice breaking. "She's gone."

**Alright, so there isn't a ton of 'action' in this chapter. It's more focused on Charlie's emotional and mental state than everything else. I just wanted to set the tone for her and her relationships for the rest of the story.**

**The chapters will be coming more infrequently than they used to I'm afraid (every 2 weeks or so). My job has me working 12+ hours a day, so there's not a ton of 'writing time'.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! It makes me so happy!**

**Soundtrack Update**

**Charlie's dream, wandering around the empty hospital.**

**-~-~-~Ransom – Son Lux**

**Charlie goes to Lydia's room to visit and talks to her.**

**-~-~-The Loved Ones – Sanders Bohlke**

**Stiles comforts Charlie in the waiting room.**

**-~-~-~The Match – The Eastern Sea (I LOVE THIS SONG. And the band. I kept going back and forth between this song and another one called 'The Snow'. Seriously, give them both a listen. The lyrics kind of make me want to cry.)**

**Everybody runs into the bathroom and finds Lydia missing (picture the action in slow motion to the song; the door would open and they would find the bathroom empty at about 1:54).**

**-~-~-How'm I Supposed to Die – Civil Twilight**


	2. Into The Woods

**Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.**

**A huge thank you to Nina the Keyblader Mistress, nessafly, EnchantingNightmares, .heaRt, katiesgotagun, heroherondaltotherescuce, .lover, easythrowaway, RedRoses5, Jaiime95, aliciasellers75, Daenerys86, Gee Brittany, lenie954, winchesterxgirl, SimplyKelly, CourtneyxWolf725, Vcarp1993, vickylopez2994, charisma26, Bookiee, TheMMMG, BriancyyD, Female whovian, Aoibhinn, Valkyrie101, HQ16, Guest 1, Sarah Jackson – The Other, Red red red ribbon, Tania, Choo plus Choo Equals Train, veronica517251, artificial-paradises, colinmochrerulestheworld, irmid-amrad-ursul, Shes-The-Proto-Type, TWsos12345, bridgetzombie, KennedyRaye, TameTheGhosts, purplemonkey36, Guest 2, nixevee, and Undeniable Weirdness for your reviews! You have no idea how much I appreciate them! And thank you to BrittWitt16 for creating your wonderful stories and inspiring mine.  
**

**Blah! When I said 2 weeks I didn't actually think it would take two weeks, but I've just been so busy! Anyways, here we are. So in this chapter, Allison might outwardly seem a bit OOC, but keep in mind the fact that she and Charlie are in the middle of a HUGE fight. That's bound to make anybody act a little differently. And as per usual Charlie gets snippy when she gets anxious. Anyways, I hope you like it. I've been writing this in the odd half hour or so that I get free, so that might lead to a bit of jumpiness. I hope it doesn't aversely affect the quality of the writing too much.**

Chapter 2 – Into the Woods

"How many times to I have to tell you? I was in the waiting area. I heard a crash. I went to investigate that ridiculously loud noise. I heard Lydia scream. Then I proceeded to haul ass in the direction of that scream, ended up in the bathroom, and found the shower running, the window open, and my friend missing!"

Charlie's voice continued to rise as she spoke until soon enough she found herself screaming—probably even spitting a little bit—into the face of the guy in the uniform in front of her. She was attracting more than a few slightly alarmed stares from the lingerers—those people who mill about and leer at crime scenes in the hopes of seeing something scandalous—but she could give less than half of two shits about what any of them thought.

It hadn't taken long for the police to get there. About half a second after Stiles careened into the bathroom, his phone was out his pocket and he was talking to his dad. What followed seemed to involve lots of pencils, pads of papers, and people in khaki uniforms nodding earnestly as they took statements. A whole lot of talking. Not a lot of looking for Lydia. Charlie stood there gnawing on her fingernails and bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet as her eyes darted around. Sheriff Stilinski was talking with Mrs. McCall as Stiles stood a few feet off, trying to eavesdrop in a manner she was sure he thought was stealthy. Other officers were distributed throughout the hallway, taking statements.

Charlie knew that this was part of the process—she understood that. She understood that they needed to collect all possible information so they could move forward and make informed decisions. But Charlie wasn't the most patient of people, especially when it came to this—when it came to Lydia. She needed to be doing something, not just standing there, being totally and completely useless. She could feel herself becoming jumpier and jumpier by the second. It was like there was a pressure building up under her skin, and she was beginning to feel like she was about to explode. And it didn't help that she had been suck giving her statement to Deputy Sean, the most passive-aggressive son of a bitch in the entire sheriff's department. He still hadn't quite forgiven her for the names she had called him over their few encounters over the past few months—Dudley Do-Right', 'Officer Krupke', and a whole lot of other more creative names that involved more than a few curse words. Which was probably why he hadn't been writing anything down the last three times she told him her story. He smirked at her and clicked his pen dramatically. "I'm sorry. I didn't quite get that. Would you mind repeating it one more time?"

If there was a look you could give someone that would light them on fire instantaneously, that would be the look Charlie gave the deputy at that moment. The bouncing of the feet and gnawing of the fingernails stopped, the eyes narrowed, and she ground her teeth together. And then she smiled. Actually, 'baring her teeth' would be a more accurate way to put it. She let out a dangerous laugh and took two small steps forward.

"Okay," she said in a sickly sweet voice. "How's about we try this again, you glorified traffic cop. I was in the waiting area. There was a crash. I went to see what it was. Lydia screamed. I ran into the bathroom. No Lydia." She held her hands in the air, signifying that she had finished. "Is that clear enough for you? Do you need me to enunciate more carefully or use shorter sentences? Do you need me to paint you a picture?" She paused and cleared her throat before waving her hands around dramatically. "We open on our heroine, calmly seated in the waiting room of the local hospital. Suddenly, a loud crash breaks the silence. She stands, and approaches the origin of the noise with trepidation—"

"Okay," a voice said, interrupting what was definitely going to turn into a long and altogether unnecessary rant. All of the sudden Stiles appeared at her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "And that's enough of that," he muttered, pulling her away. "Nice to see you Sean, as always." He nodded at the deputy before turning back to Charlie and ushering her a little ways away. "Okay….." he drawled out, a little bit of sarcasm seeping into his voice. "You kind of looked like you were going to punch Sean over there in the face. I really didn't think this needed saying, but being arrested from assaulting a police officer isn't the best game plan. Like, ever."

Charlie let out a huff and came to a stop, folding her arms across her chest. "It doesn't count when the officer involved is being a total d-bag."

Stiles shot her a weird look and open and closed his mouth a few times before responding. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it does still count."

"No it doesn't," she insisted. "It's extenuating circumstances. Excessive douchiness."

He scrunched up his face and stared at the wall behind her, blinking a lot and making that confused expression he sometimes had. "I don't—I don't think that's a thing."

"Stiles," she growled in a voice that made him shift uncomfortably. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for a reality check right about now?" She pulled the blanket one of the nurses had draped over her shoulders, balled it up, and chucked it on the floor next to her. "And why the hell does everybody keep putting blankets on me? I'm not cold—I don't need a freaking blanket!" At that moment another nurse walked forwards carrying another fleecy blanket, but before the woman could get another step forward, Charlie threw a hand up in the air, making her stop. "Don't, Gladys. Seriously, just don't."

The woman blinked at Charlie's unintentionally harsh response and spun on her heel, marching the other direction. Stiles grabbed Charlie's shoulder, making her face him. "Okay, one," he said, holding up a finger in her face, "I'm pretty sure her name wasn't Gladys. Two, don't you think you're overreacting. Just a little bit?"

"No." Stiles looked at her skeptically, and she blew out a long breath and shrugged. "Okay, fine, yes. Just a little bit. But seriously, what the hell is it with the blanket?"

"It's a shock blanket," he answered. "They give them to people when they're in shock."

Charlie made a face at him. "Why?"

"Nobody knows," Stiles said with a noncommittal jerk of the head.

Charlie let out a loud groan and ran her hands down her face. "What are we supposed to do here, Stiles?" she demanded, her voice coming out panicked. "Because I've been racking my brain here, and I've got no freaking idea."

Stiles's face fell. Not that he had been happy about anything to begin with, but he had been able to block it out some. He let out a long sigh and ran his hands down his face before grabbing her shoulders and forcing Charlie to look at him. "It's gonna be okay," he murmured. "I called Scott—he's already on his way. We're gonna find Lydia and everything's going to end up okay." Charlie bit her lip and broke the eye contact, opting instead to stare at some tiles. Stiles gripped her shoulders a little tighter, making her look him in the eye again. "Do you trust me?"

It was a complicated question. Charlie didn't really trust easily. In fact, she wasn't even really sure if she knew what the word meant in the practical sense. As an abstract concept she understood it, but in reality….how could she define it? She didn't know. But if she ever came close to trusting somebody, it was Stiles. So she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I trust you."

Stiles released her shoulders and gave a definitive nod. "Okay, then. Trust me when I say we're gonna get her back. Now that we're done with that, can we please start being productive and go eavesdrop on my dad?" Charlie pressed her lips together and nodded again, and something close to a smile appeared on Stiles's face. "Great."

Stiles raised his hand for a high-five, but Charlie's arms stayed down by her sides. "Seriously?" she demanded raising her eyebrows at him.

A slight frown formed on Stiles's face as he looked back and forth between her and his hand. "Yeah," he said, pointing at his own raised hand. "This kind of undercuts the seriousness of the moment, doesn't it? I'm gonna go ahead and put that back down." With his other hand, he grabbed the raised one and pulled it out of the air, back down to his side. "We'll just save the high-fives for later."

A little ways down the hall, Mr. Martin had joined Mrs. McCall and the sheriff, along with another deputy Charlie didn't recognize. The pair crept closer, crouching down and staying close to the walls. All in all it was a degree of stealth that was probably unnecessary, but it felt appropriate in the moment. "You checked the whole hospital, right?" the sheriff inquired, looking earnestly at Mrs. McCall.

"Every last corner," Mrs. McCall replied with a definitive nod.

"Nothing suspicious?"

"Nothing," Mrs. McCall repeated, looking to Mr. Martin for confirmation. "She just took off."

"Alright," the sheriff said, turning to another one of his deputies. "Let's get an APB out on a sixteen-year old redhead." He looked back to Mrs. McCall and Mr. Martin inquiringly. "Any other descriptors?"

All of the sudden, Stiles abandoned all attempts at subtlety and burst into the conversation. "Five foot three, green eyes, fair skin, and her hair's actually strawberry blonde," he blurted out. Then he glanced at Charlie, a strange and slightly scared looking expression covering his face. "Or just red. Red's fine. It's definitely got a red—" he started waving his hand around his head, indicating at his own close-cropped hair "—it's a generally reddish hue."

"What are you doing?" Charlie hissed, walking up as well.

"I have no idea," he muttered back.

Charlie rolled her eyes slightly and turned to the sheriff. "I think the fact that she's got green eyes will kind of be overshadowed by the fact that she's naked and has a giant wound in her side."

The sheriff stared at the two of them, the expression on his face a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "Is that so?" he asked, glancing between the two of them. Charlie and Stiles looked at each other for confirmation before turning back to the sheriff and nodding. The sheriff smiled humorously and nodded back. "Okay." He grabbed Stiles by the back of neck and dragged him a few feet off, making Charlie follow after them. "Stiles," the sheriff whispered harshly, "what the hell are you still doing here?"

"Um, providing moral support," Stiles stammered back, the sentence sounding more like a question than anything else.

"Really?" the sheriff asked in a sarcastic tone. "Who exactly are you supporting?"

"That'd be me," Charlie said, raising her hand a bit. "He's the wind beneath my wings."

The sheriff gave Charlie a strange look before turning back to his son. "How about you provide your ass back home where you should be," he growled. "And take her with you. There's nothing else you can do here. Go home. Get some sleep."

"Sure," Stiles said, bobbing his head as he spoke. "Yeah, sure. I will absolutely, definitely be doing that. With no deviations whatsoever."

The sheriff just sighed and scratched at his forehead. "Get out of my sight."

"You got it!"

With that Stiles scurried past his father, pausing for a moment so Charlie could catch up with him. As they rounded the corner, she found herself confronted with a collapsed vending machine. "Who killed Bob?" she asked, craning her neck at the scene as they passed it by.

"I have absolutely no idea," Stiles replied a little too quickly.

It felt strange to be leaving the hospital. She had eaten, slept, and even showered there for the past couple of days. Hell, she hadn't even been outside since she stepped in through those doors in the first place. She had lost all sense of time caught in that windowless waiting room, basking in the fluorescent lighting. She wasn't even sure it was night until she stepped through the front doors. Stepping back into the real world kind of required a readjustment. The two of them stepped through those double doors and into the cold night air. Charlie took a deep breath, grateful to finally be out of the stale hospital air.

"Alright," he continued as they marched towards the parking lot. "So Scott texted back. He's in the parking lot. You don't have to worry—we're gonna find her."

"How exactly?" Charlie demanded, trying to keep up with his almost impossibly fast pace. "She's been gone for over an hour! She could be pretty much anywhere by now."

"Exactly, which is why—" he reached into his jacket and pulled out a rumpled wad of fabric "—I got this."

Frowning to herself, Charlie grabbed the fabric and unbunched it. It was faded and blue except for an angry stain of blackened blood. "Lydia's hospital gown? Where did you get this?"

"I swiped it from the bathroom while everyone was looking for her," he replied. "Scott's gonna use it to track her by scent."

"Scott's going to sniff Lydia's clothes?" she demanded skeptically.

Stiles let out a loud groan and shook his head at her. "Why do you have to try and make it sound all creepy?"

"I didn't have to try," she shot back. "I literally just described what he's about to do."

"Well that's the plan," Stiles barreled on. "Now come on. The Jeep's over here."

Charlie let out a long, shaky breath before following him in the direction of the car. She wasn't equipped for this. If there was one thing she didn't know how to do, it was nothing. And that's what she was doing right now. Nothing. Lydia was wandering around in the woods, cold, naked, and alone, and there wasn't a damn thing Charlie could do about it. Except apparently let Scott sniff her hospital gown. Her stomach was twisting itself into a knot.

She needed to lock it down. She needed to lock it all down. She wouldn't be any good to Lydia if she let this get to her. A big, big part of her wanted to lie on the floor of her bedroom curled up in ball and listening to 'Blackbird' by the Beatles on a loop, but that part was useless. "Suck it up, Oswin," she whispered to herself. "You've got work to do."

When they finally got to the Jeep, Scott was already sitting inside. As they approached, he nodded in greeting, but the expression on his face stayed solemn. Stiles strode forwards and opened the door, allowing Charlie to scramble in, almost doing a back flip in her attempt to get to that back seat. "Did you get it?" Scott asked, as Stiles slid into the seat next to him.

Stiles sighed and slammed the door shut. "Who do you think you're talking to right now? Of course I got it."

Charlie leaned forwards over the seat and dropped the hospital gown on Scott's lap. "There you go," she sighed out, collapsing back in the seat. "I have a feeling things are about to start getting weird."

"So this is the one she was just wearing?" Scott asked.

Stiles nodded and then looked back at Charlie, like he was checking up on her or something. She folded her arms across her chest and sank a little lower in her seat. She wasn't used to that—having other people look after her like that. Scott glanced back and forth between the two of them a few times before twisting around in his seat as well. He stared at her with those big, brown, earnest eyes of his. "Hey, we're gonna find her, Charlie," he murmured comfortingly. "I'm not going to let anything happen to her. I'm not going to let anyone hurt her. Not again."

Charlie pressed her lips together into a wan smile. She honestly wasn't sure how to respond to all of the assurances. "Thanks."

"I'm serious," Scott pressed. "Nothing is going to happen to her." He sighed and scratched absently at his forehead. "And I'm sorry about Allison. I—I tried to get her to call you back, but she—"

"Yeah, I know," Charlie said, cutting him off. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

"Yes it is," Scott insisted. "You were keeping my secret. She's mad at you because of me. I never meant for any of that to happen. I'm really, really sorry."

Charlie smiled again, and this time it was genuine. "Look, Scott, I knew what I was getting myself into at the beginning."

"Really?" Stiles interrupted with a scoff. "You knew that you were going to end up emptying a gun into the torso of a giant, wacked out, eight-foot-tall wolf-monster."

Charlie swung her head around and stared at Stiles through narrowed eyes. "Stiles, not helpful." She turned back to Scott and barreled on. "The point is that I knew Allison would find out eventually, and I knew this might happen. It's not on you. Got it?" Scott's jaw twitched slightly, but he seemed to accept what she was saying because he nodded as well. "Okay. Now that we've got all that out of the way, can we please find Lydia now? Go on, Scott. Sniff her clothes."

Scott winced at the wording and Stiles let out a loud groan. "What did I tell you," he said looking at her accusingly. "I said not to make it weird. You just made it weird." He sighed heavily and snatched the hospital gown from Scott, waving it in his face. "Okay, just shove the thing in your face and let's find her."

Scott raised the bundle of clothes to his face and inhaled deeply while Stiles shoved his keys in the ignition, twisting them almost violently and making the car rev to life. Charlie held her hands in her lap, picking at her fingernails until she hit the quick. Every second that passed by, Lydia was getting further away. It was getting more difficult to find her. And there were so many things that could be in those woods. There was a time when all Charlie would have to worry about was coyotes and exposure to the elements, but now….who knew what could be out there? There were monsters in the dark.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Charlie listened to the revving of the car engine. That might as well have been the sound of her breathing. Taking a deep breath, Charlie opened her eyes again, and she found herself staring at her own reflection in the rearview mirror. All of the sudden a small voice rang in her head—one that sounded like Lydia. _Never frown, Charlie. Somebody could be falling in love with your smile_. Well Charlie didn't feel much like smiling at the moment, but if there was one thing she was really, really good at, it was denial. She leaned forwards, sticking her head between the two boys. "You know, Scott, something just occurred to me. If you became a cop, you could be a policeman who is his own police dog. How cool would that be?"

"Has anybody told you that you deflect tension and anxiety with humor," Stiles mumbled. "Like, a lot."

"Just you and my shrink," Charlie sighed. She collapsed back in the seat and stared out in front of her, through the windshield in front of her. For some reason she focused in on the sign in front of her. 'Beacon Hills Hospital'. Hospital. The place people were supposed to go to get better. Back in the real world—the one that had rules that actually made sense. Charlie had been trying really, really hard to make things make sense. Sometimes she could. She could still apply logic, she could still understand motivations and make connections. She could still figure out the puzzles. The problem was she didn't have the tools to figure it out. The rulebook had changed.

All of the sudden, Stiles's face appeared, blocking her view of the hospital. "Hey. We're going to find her."

Charlie pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, perching her chin on her knees. "I know," she said with all the false confidence in the world. She raised her eyebrows at him pointedly. "Can we get on with it now?"

Stiles knew her well enough by now to know that she wasn't being harsh. She got the distinct impression that he saw straight through her. Straight through all of it. And that scared her more than a little bit. Because, honestly, if he looked too close she wasn't sure he'd like what he saw. But for now he seemed to approve, enough not to be scared away by the complete mess that was Charlie Oswin at least. Enough to be friends. Stiles didn't smile, but his eyes crinkled at the corners a bit, giving her a reassuring look. "Alright. Let's get on with it." He swung his head around to look at Scott, whose face was still buried in that wad of fabric. "Have you got it yet?"

Scott removed the fabric from his face before glancing at the two of them before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, I've got it."

"Then let's go!" Stiles exclaimed. He made a move to back out of the parking spot and switched on the headlights. They cut through the dark, illuminating a figure in front of them. Stiles jumped in his seat and let out a strangled yelp of surprise. "Wow!"

It was Allison. She was standing in front of the car, literally like a dear in headlights. It was the first time Charlie had seen the girl since they parted ways at the house. She hadn't been to the hospital at all, probably because her parents had gotten even more overly protective than they had been before. And she had just lost her aunt…..Allison was not having an easy time. Normally Charlie would try and help—show up in her pajamas with a tub of ice cream and a couple of romcoms—but Allison didn't want to be made to feel better. Not by Charlie at least. Charlie could see the worry in her face. There was a line between her

Allison circled around the car and came up next to Scott's window. He quickly rolled it down, a worried expression on his face. "What are you doing here?" he whispered urgently. "Somebody's gonna see us!"

"I don't care," Allison whispered back. "She's my best friend and we need to find her before they do."

"I can find her before the cops can," Scott assured her.

Allison exhaled sharply and shook her head almost imperceptibly. "How about before my father does?"

"He knows?" Stiles demanded.

"Yeah," she said, nodding nervously. "I saw him and three other guys get into two SUVs."

"Search party," Scott murmured, glancing back at Stiles with concern.

"More like hunting party," Allison amended.

Charlie's hands involuntarily balled themselves up into fists, so tight that even her bitten fingernails dug into the skin of her palm. The Argents were after Lydia. She wasn't a werewolf. She couldn't be—the wound hadn't healed yet. That's what happened when you turned into the werewolf. But she hadn't died either. That meant that she was something new. Charlie still didn't know Mr. Argent all that well, but he didn't strike her as the type of man who embraced uncertainty. And she didn't trust his dedication to the code enough to rule out the possibility of him killing Lydia. Especially after what had happened to Kate.

Scott reached over and grabbed the latch, swinging the door wide open. "Get in."

Allison nodded and made a move to get in the car, but stopped suddenly as her eyes travelled past Scott and Stiles to the back seat, finally falling on Charlie. Charlie tried to smile and held up a hand in an awkward wave, making Allison's face visibly darken. Narrowed eyes and twitching jaw—Charlie knew that Allison wasn't happy to see her. She turned back to Scott. "What is she doing here?" she asked in a whisper Charlie was probably meant to hear.

Scott glanced back and forth between the two girls, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "Allison, please—"

"Same as you," Charlie replied, a bit of an edge in her voice. "Looking for Lydia." She didn't know why she suddenly felt so defensive. It was her fault—she was in the wrong here. She was the reason Lydia was now roaming around the woods—Charlie knew that. But having someone else think it—having Allison hate her for it—suddenly made her clam up. The two of them just stared at each other, neither blinking, neither backing down. It turned into some bizarre staring contest, and the both of them were determined to win. Like if they won that contest, they would win the fight—they would be the one justified in their actions. The tension was thick, like the air was crackling with static electricity. That is, until a hand appeared between the two of them, waving frantically.

"Um, hello?" Stiles's voice interrupted, drawing their attention away from each other. "As much as I would love to see two hot girls getting into a catfight, we've kinda got other things to deal with. Time sensitive things. Allison, get in the car."

Allison exhaled sharply, but inclined her head in assent. Scott shifted slightly allowing Allison to clamber in. It took a comically ridiculous amount of effort, but soon enough she found herself in the back seat next to Charlie. Stiles quickly threw the Jeep into reverse and backed out of the parking spot. Moments later they were bumping along the dark road with Scott sticking his head out the window, sniffing at the crisp night air. The ridiculousness of it would have been funny if the situation wasn't so dire.

The silence in the car was oppressive, mostly because it only emphasized the hostility that was rolling off Allison in waves. Charlie stole some sidelong glances at Allison, trying to gauge her mood. The jaw was set, the eyes were narrowed, and the arms were folded tightly across her chest. The girl was staring straight in front of her, determined not to look at Charlie. Completely closed off. And when Charlie saw something she that didn't want to open up, she poked it until it did.

"So what's all this about you and Scott not being able to be seen together?" she prodded. Allison didn't respond. She shifted in her seat and her arms tightened even more around her waist, but she didn't so much as glance in Charlie's direction. Charlie blew out a long breath and stared out at the road in front of her. "Great," she bit out sarcastically. "Good talk. We should share our feelings like this more often."

At the words 'share our feelings' Allison let out a bitter snort, making Stiles groan loudly from the front seat. "Oh my God! You guys have some serious communication issues, you know that? Charlie, Scott and Allison can't be seen together or Allison's dad is going to go all Rambo on Scott's ass, so they are now lovers in the nighttime."

The irony of the situation smacked Charlie hard in the face. Maybe under normal circumstances—if she hadn't been riddled with anxiety—she would have just let it go. She would have just let it roll off her back. But she felt like a cornered animal, and cornered animals had a tendency to lash out. "Let me get this straight," she said, enunciating the words carefully. "You are currently lying to people that you care about, to protect someone else that you care about. Some of that sounds familiar."

"That's not the same," Allison snapped. "That is so not the same."

"How is it not the same?!" Charlie demanded, waving her hands around a bit. "It's the exact same motivation."

"No, it's not!" Allison practically shouted, glaring Charlie down.

The frustration was coming to a boiling point. Charlie had been working so hard to keep it all in she felt like she was about to explode. And then she did. "You forgave Scott!" Charlie shot back. "You forgave your parents! They told all the same lies I did! I never knew anything more than Scott did—not ever! Hell, I knew less than he did most of the time!"

"That's not the point, Charlie!" Allison replied. "I knew Scott was lying! I knew my parents were lying! And do you know who I turned to—who I chose to trust with that? You! I picked you! Every time I wondered what was happening or why people were lying to me, I turned to you! Because, honestly? You were the one person I thought would tell me the truth. You listened to me cry over Scott over and over—looking for some sort of explanation—and you had all the answers! But you still didn't say anything! I trusted you. And you betrayed that trust."

Charlie blinked in the face of the sudden onslaught. It was like she was sitting back and watching past scenes from her life on a television screen—all those times Allison had cried or wondered. Charlie had wanted to say something, but she couldn't. Any frustration she had been feeling broke in half like a dried twig and every feeling of guilt she had felt then was magnified a hundred times as she stared into Allison's now watery eyes. It felt like she had been kicked in the gut. "I didn't….I didn't have a choice," Charlie whispered, all the indignation leaving her voice. "I would have told you if I could, but I didn't have a choice."

Allison's hostility faltered in the face of Charlie's genuine regret, but it didn't fade entirely. "There's always a choice," she said bitterly.

It felt like Charlie's heart plummeted into her stomach. She had no idea why, but she had expected it to all just go away—that Allison would take her time being mad and then get over it. And then Lydia would heal and everything would go back to the way it was. This was the first time it even occurred to her that that might not happen. Things might never get back to the way they were. And Allison might never stop hating her. That now familiar ache was beginning to form behind Charlie's eyes again. The tears were coming again.

No. She rejected the tears. She was not a freaking leaky faucet. She was Charlie Oswin, and apparently that meant something. She let out a long shaky breath and opened her eyes again, only to find herself looking directly into another pair of maple brown eyes, and they were filled with concern. Stiles was watching her in the rearview mirror. Time to suck it up. Charlie forced the tears and offered up a wan smile, trying to reassure him that she was okay. He didn't seem to buy it, though.

"Okay, we can have 'sharing time' later," Stiles interjected from the front seat. "For now how's about we play nice and cooperate? For Lydia? Is that something the two of you think you can do?"

Both of the girls glanced at each other before nodding in reluctant agreement. "Yes," they muttered simultaneously.

Stiles nodded and glanced at Charlie one last time before staring out at the road in front of him. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as the car zipped down the road. He leaned to the side so that he was closer to Scott. "Hey, buddy! How are we doing?!"

"Just keep going down this road!" Scott yelled back. The car lurched forwards, picking up speed. They were far, far away from the hospital by that point. Sure Lydia had about an hour on them, but Charlie didn't see any way she could have gotten out this far—not on foot. Not on human feet anyway.

Curling herself into a tight little ball, Charlie stared out the window, into the dark. Every little shadow made her stomach do a somersault like, for some reason, she kept expecting Lydia to just appear on the side of the road. She nervously ran her fingers through her hair, fiddling with the ends of it. She let out a long sigh, and looked over at Allison. Stiles was right. She had to focus and cooperate, and they needed more information.

"So what exactly is going on in the Argent family home?" Charlie finally asked. "You said four people went out on the search. Are there any other indications of what might be going on, or what might have happened to Lydia? Anything out of the ordinary? Or more out of the ordinary that usual?"

Allison pressed her lips together in a thin line and shook her head. "Don't know."

"I'm not asking for me," Charlie murmured. I'm asking for Lydia."

"Charlie, I really don't know," Allison insisted.

"If Lydia's turning, do you think they'll really kill her?" Stiles asked urgently.

"They won't tell me anything, okay? All they say is 'we'll talk after Kate's funeral, when the _others_ get here'."

"Well that's suitably vague and disturbing," Charlie muttered, curling up even tighter.

"Yeah, seriously," Stiles piled on. "What others?"

"They won't tell me that either," Allison said quickly. Her anxiety seemed to be growing as she spoke. She began gnawing on her fingernails and her eyes were darting around like she was expecting someone to jump out at her out of the shadows.

"You know what, your family's got some pretty serious communication issues to work on too," he called back at her. Allison let out a snort and rolled her eyes in agreement. Stiles looked back over at Scott, whose head was still hanging out the window. "Scott, are we going in the right direction?!"

"Take the next right!" Scott shouted back over the howling of the wind outside the car.

Stiles yanked hard on the steering wheel. Charlie was pretty sure she felt the wheels of the car actually lift off the road as it moved in an almost perfect ninety degree angle. The rubber screeched against the asphalt and she was fairly certain that if they came back during the day, they would find black streaks on the ground.

Lydia wasn't a werewolf. Charlie simply refused to believe that she was turning. First of all, none of what had happened to Scott had happened to her. His wound healed. Hers didn't. And as far as she knew, he didn't go wandering around in the woods right after he was turned. And Lydia hadn't shown any signs of heightened senses. Plus the idea of Lydia as a werewolf was just wrong. Growing claws and sprouting hair out of her cheeks? There was no way any of that was compatible with her personality. And what the hell would growing claws do to a manicure? Nope. No. That was not a plausible option. Lydia couldn't be a werewolf. But that didn't mean that she hadn't turned into something else…..

Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. The way Stiles took the corners kind of made Charlie feel like she was on a rollercoaster. Her stomach lurched a bit every time she turned. That is until she realized where they were going and then her stomach had a completely different reason to lurch. They were slowly moving away from the main part of the city, deeper into the woods. Closer and closer to one specific part of the woods.

"Hey, Charlie," Stiles called out over his shoulder, his voice uncertain. "Are we going where I think we're going?"

A humorless snort forced its way out of Charlie's nose. She leaned forwards and rested her chin on Stiles's seat in front of her next to the headrest so that her face was near his. "Yup," she murmured into his ear. "We are going exactly where you think we're going."

Stiles twitched when he realized her proximity and cleared his throat, but recovered quickly. "Well—well that's just great," he stammered out. "That's just fan-freaking-tastic."

All of the sudden Allison's head appeared on Stiles's other side making him jump again. "What are you talking about? Where are we going?"

One more look was exchanged between Stiles and Charlie, and the car picked up a little more speed. Charlie held on tight to keep herself from being thrown about as the car flew down that tiny, unpaved road, silently praying that Stiles didn't lose one of his side mirrors to the encroaching trees. The headlights cut through the black, giving them a full view of what lay ahead. The trees formed a wall around the road, almost guiding their path, making Charlie feel a bit like they were rats running a maze while some giant, bespectacled, all knowing scientist stood over them with a clip board taking notes. They had no choice but to follow that one path given them, and hope they would find the cheese they were looking for. Shit, her metaphors really were getting out of control. If Lydia knew Charlie had just compared her to cheese, she would be getting her ass kicked right about now. Verbally, of course

The Hale house. Charlie wasn't quite sure how, but it looked even more terrifying than it used to. It was like the events of a few nights had changed it somehow, hanging around like an evil aura or a bad smell. The evidence of what happened that night was still all around her—the holes in the trees and the siding of the house from where the bullets struck, the bits of crime scene tape from where the cops had cordoned off the area, and Charlie swore that the acrid scent of burning fur still filled her nose.

The four of them parked a little ways down the road, approaching the house with caution. There really wasn't any way to predict what they might find there—Derek, Lydia, a group of hunters. Charlie's steps became smaller as she approached the tree line, her eyes darting about and looking for anybody else who might be in that clearing. It was empty, but somehow that didn't make her feel any better. She had never been one to believe in haunted houses, but now the possibility was seeming a hell of a lot more plausible. And if she had to pick out a single house that was probably haunted, it would definitely be the one she was staring at right now.

"So she came here," Stiles asked, eyeing Scott carefully. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," Scott murmured. His eyes were roving around, looking for any hint of a clue. "This is where the scent leads."

Stiles took a few steps closer to the house before coming to a stop and letting out a loud sigh. "Seriously, has Lydia ever been here?"

"Not with me," Allison said with a shake of the head.

All eyes turned to Charlie. She shrugged and jerked her head to the side slightly, indicating a negative. "Not with me either. This isn't exactly a spa getaway." She exhaled sharply and eyed the house, feeling a sense of unease wash over her. "But why would she come here," Charlie murmured. "I don't think Lydia even knows 'here' exists. This doesn't make any sense. What would she expect to find here?"

"Maybe she came here on instinct," Allison threw in. "Like she was looking for Derek."

"You mean looking for an alpha," Scott elaborated.

Allison nodded. "Wolves need a pack, right?"

"Not all of them," Scott replied, somewhat defensively.

"But Derek's not here," Charlie replied. She spun slowly as she walked, taking in the full 360 degree view of the area. "The cops were literally here yesterday combing over every inch of this place. He might have just had his name cleared after that stunt Mr. Argent pulled with the necklace, but I can guarantee you he won't be living here for at least a week. He's way too used to running for that."

"Since when do you know Derek so well?" Stiles demanded with a bit of an edge in his voice.

Charlie turned in the direction of his voice to find him crouching low, staring at one point in particular on the ground. Frowning curiously, she moved towards him. "It's not like we're pen pals or anything," she said as she approached. "I just understand the guy."

The only response she got was a loud harrumph, indicating that Stiles still wasn't too thrilled with the topic at hand.

"She's not wrong," Scott's voice chimed in. "I can't find Derek's scent anywhere. He hasn't been here for a while."

"But wouldn't Lydia be drawn to an alpha?" Allison insisted. "Is it an instinct to be part of a pack?"

Charlie didn't have to see Scott to know the expression on his face. It was like she could physically feel his reluctance. "Yeah….we're—we're stronger in packs."

"Like strength in numbers," Allison continued, trying to get as much information as possible.

"Uh, no," Scott mumbled. "Not like that. It's like literally stronger, faster, better in every way."

"Basically werewolves are just super co-dependent," Charlie called out over her shoulder. "You might want to keep that in mind, Allison. If you're not careful Scott's going to start getting super clingy and say things like 'you are my strength'. And trust me, none of us wants that to happen."

Then Charlie heard a light, feminine snort from somewhere behind her. She whipped her head around, looking over her shoulder, only to see Allison covering her mouth and trying to force back laughter. A small smile pulled at the corner of Charlie's lips. Finally she made Allison do something other than scowl. Until Allison caught her eye and the laughter stopped abruptly. Clearing her throat, Allison turned back to Scott. "Is that the same for an alpha? With the increased strength thing?"

"Yeah," Scott said, getting visibly nervous at the thought. "That'll make Derek stronger too."

Would Derek gaining more strength be such a bad thing? Charlie honestly didn't know. She understood him on a certain level—the two of them had spent pretty much the entirety of their lives as loners, always on the move—but she couldn't say she was certain what he was capable of. He wasn't Peter, that was for damn sure. But he wasn't going to disappear into a corner either. No. Derek had lost all his family now, and Charlie was pretty sure he was going to try and build a new one. And that wasn't necessarily good news for them.

Shaking her head, Charlie banished all those thoughts from her head. That was something she could think about later. Now they just needed to find Lydia. Instead she turned her attention back to Stiles who was squinting down at something. "Hey," she whispered, crouching down next to him. "What are we looking at?"

Stiles glanced up at her and suddenly their faces were inches apart. Suddenly Charlie realized that she was holding her breath. She felt a slight flush creeping up her neck, but didn't move. The dark was enough to conceal anything like that. Stiles blinked in surprise at their sudden closeness and swallowed a bit. "Uh, um, not sure," he stammered out, turning back and staring at the leaves in front of him. "I, uh, I though I saw…."

His voice trailed off slightly as he brushed at the leaves. Suddenly, Charlie saw something metallic gleaming in the moonlight. "Wait a second…."

Almost at the same time, the two of them reached out and their hands met a bit of thin wire. It felt cold in her hands. The two of them glanced at each other for about half a second before Stiles turned and called out over his shoulder. "Ooh, hey, look at this." Allison wandered over to investigate while Scott kept watch. "Do you see this?"

Allison crouched down on Stiles's other side, peering down at the thing. "What is it?" she asked quietly.

"Tripwire," Stiles and Charlie answered simultaneously. She turned to Stiles, no small measure of excitement in her eyes. "Dude," she whispered dramatically. "Pull it."

Stiles let out a tiny, vaguely gleeful laugh, and shifted the wire ever-so-slightly. There was a mechanical clicking noise that promised something awesome and then…..nothing. No giant net that suddenly scooped them up and left them suspended from a tree, no sudden barrage of flaming arrows, no Indiana Jones-style boulder that suddenly threatened to crush them all to bits. All in all it was a little disappointing. That is, until she heard the muffled sounds of struggling behind her, followed by Scott's disembodied voice.

"Uh, guys?"

"Yeah, buddy?" Stiles said as the three of them turned around to look at him. What they saw made Charlie's hand fly to her mouth to stifle the involuntary laughter. "Oh," Stiles said weakly as they surveyed the consequences of their actions.

Scott was a few feet off, exactly where he had been standing before. Except for the small detail that he was now upside down, suspended from a tree. He smirked at them, despite the fact that all of the arms and legs not currently imprisoned were now flailing about in a way that should never be attributed to someone who supposedly had superhuman powers of coordination.

"Hey there, Scott," she said weakly. "How're you doing?"

Scott let out a chuckle and glanced up at his entangled foot. "Next time you find a tripwire….don't trip it."

"Uh, yeah," Stiles said, bobbing his head. "Noted."

"Oh, come on, Scott," Charlie whined loudly. "If we never tripped the trip wire, then how would we get to have beautiful moments like this?" She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out her iPhone, toggling through the functions until she found the video recorder. She backed up a bit, so she could get him entirely into frame. "There we go, Scott," she said, an evil grin forming on her face. "Work the camera. Work it. Give us your best 'Blue Steel'." Scott glared back at her with narrowed eyes. "Stop being such a sour wolf," Charlie pouted. "Give us a smile. Let's see those glorious chompers of yours. Make your orthodontist proud."

All she received in return was a scowl. A scowl that was betrayed by the fact that his lips quirked upwards at the corners. Or downwards, given his current position. "Would you just let me down already?"

Charlie let out a snort and she, Stiles, and Allison all stepped forwards to make some sort of effort to get Scott free. Though Charlie wasn't really done watching him dangle. But they were busy, and Scott ending up in a hastily laid hunters trap at least one more time was pretty much inevitable. She would get her sequel. She stowed her phone and began to reach up to help the others, but before any of them had the chance to get him down, his ears pricked. His head snapped around, but his eyes didn't focus on anything in particular, like his was listening to something.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!" he hissed urgently, waving his hands around to make them stop. The three of them stopped, wondering what the hell was going on and glancing at each other surreptitiously like they were cheating on a quiz.

"Okay, buddy," Stiles whispered. "You're kinda giving us some mixed messages here."

"Someone's coming!"

Charlie, Stiles, and Allison just stood there stupidly, wondering what to do with the information. Scott looked between the three of them, eyes wide with disbelief. "G—go! Hide! Go!"

"What about you!" Charlie whispered back.

"Forget it—just go!"

With that, she, Stiles, and Allison all darted back towards the tree line, slipping slightly on the layers of dead leaves as they moved. The ground sloped downwards, giving whoever was approaching the vantage point. Which meant they had to hide, and fast. Allison darted behind one tree, pressing her back against the surface. Charlie's eyes darted about, looking for the best place to hide, but before she could make up her mind another hand circled around hers, yanking her off to the side behind another tree. She and Stiles pressed themselves against the tree, trying to be as small as possible. She actually kind of felt like Stiles was trying protect her. Her back was pressed against his front, and he was almost wrapped around her, trying to shield her against anything that might try and attack them. Charlie probably would have started to feel that flush creeping up her neck again if she wasn't so freaked out at the moment. Charlie squinted into the black night until her eyes began to ache, but all she would make out was four figures in dark clothing.

"Scott."

Charlie recognized that voice. It was Mr. Argent's voice. Though she probably should have expected as much. Charlie swore under her breath only to feel Stiles poke her hard in the ribs, trying to get her to be quiet.

"Mr. Argent," Scott said sheepishly. His voice was oddly nasal with him hanging upside down and all the blood was rushing to his head.

Biting onto her lip to forcibly keep herself quiet, Charlie peeked around the corner of the tree. Mr. Argent was crouching down in front of him, so the two of them were staring at each other in one of the more bizarre standoffs Charlie had ever witnessed, while the other three nameless goons hung back. Mr. Argent exhaled in a sound of mild amusement, perfectly at ease in the situation. "How are you doing?"

"Good," Scott said, nodding to himself and trying to sound as casual as possible. "You know….hanging out…." Charlie let out a snort that was probably a little too loud, earning herself another poke in the ribs from Stiles. "Is this one of yours?" Scott continued, gesturing at his bound ankle. "It's, uh, good. Nice design. Very constricting."

Mr. Argent let out a soft sigh, and all of the sudden any humor that might have existed faded away in an instant. "What are you doing out here, Scott?"

"Looking for my friend," he murmured softly.

Mr. Argent sighed, and a smile appeared on his face that was simultaneously mournful and menacing. "Ah, that's right. Lydia's in your group now, isn't she? Part of the clique? Is that the word you use? Or is there another way to put it….? Part of your _pack_?

"Actually 'clique' sounds about right to me," Scott mumbled in reply.

"I hope so," Mr. Argent replied immediately. "Because I know she's a friend of Allison's and one special circumstance such as yourself? One I can handle. Not two."

Charlie felt all of her muscles tighten instinctively at the hint of a threat. Her hands balled up into fists. Maybe it was her instinctive desire to punch him in the face. She felt like hitting a lot of people in the face these days. Stiles seemed to sense the sudden shift in her demeanor, because he gripped her arm and squeezed it comfortingly. She felt herself relax a little bit, but her body was still tense, like it wanted to fight.

"Scott do you know what a hemicorporectomy is?" Mr. Argent asked. His voice was soft, but to Charlie it almost sounded as if he was screaming. The amount of authority contained in every syllable made the words ring in her ears.

"I have a feeling I don't want to," Scott replied cheekily.

"Medical term for amputating someone at the waist. Cutting them in half. It takes a tremendous amount of strength to cut through tissue and bone like that." He reached up, drawing a line against Scott's middle, moving it as you would a saw. At the motion, Stiles's hand on Charlie's arm tightened even more, and she covered it with her own. "Let's hope a demonstration doesn't become necessary."

With that, Mr. Argent got to his feet and walked back into the trees, the other goons following in his wake and leaving Scott dangling from the tree. When they faded into the dark, Charlie felt her muscles unclench and she felt her shoulders slump as relief flooded through her. It took her a few moments to realize that her hand was still clutching Stiles's. From the way his twitched, she was pretty sure he realized the same thing, but neither of them moved. They waited a few moments to ensure that the hunters had really gone before moving out from behind the tree. As they did, Charlie ran her thumb over her fingertips as she walked towards Scott. Suddenly her hand felt oppressively empty.

"You okay?" Allison asked as they came to a stop in front of him.

Scott sighed and made a lame attempt at an upside down shrug. "Just another life-threatening conversation with you dad."

"Yeah, Allison," Charlie muttered. "No offense or anything, but your dad's kind of terrifying. I mean that was all cool and badass and stuff, but also a little bit psycho."

Allison ignored Charlie and let her eyes follow the line Scott was attached to. They stopped when they reached some sort of pulley mechanism attached to a nearby tree. "Stiles, help me with this."

Charlie hung back near Scott as the other two rushed over to the tree. She moved closer, narrowing her eyes at the loop encircling his ankle. She reached up and felt the wire. It was thin, but strong. Good thing Scott was a werewolf. Otherwise he would probably be looking at a wicked bruise in the morning. "I think Stiles has got some pliers in the toolbox in his car," she said, backing away a bit. "Those should cut through the wire."

Scott smirked up at her. He lifted his hand and stared at his fingers. The nails began to grow and taper off at the tip, forming sharp claws. He bent up at the waist, hauling his torso high enough that he could reach above his feet. He swiped his claws across the wire, severing it, and dropped to the ground with a soft thud. Charlie let out a sigh and rolled her eyes heavily. "Show off," she muttered bitterly.

His smirk widened even further and he turned to Stiles and Allison, who were still struggling with the pulley. "Thanks, but….I think I got it." He looked down at his right, clawed hand with a smugness that kind of made Charlie want to smack him over the head.

"Yeah," Stiles murmured, raising his eyebrows and looking between Scott and the piece of now useless wire hanging from the pulley.

"Like I said," Charlie sighed, smacking Scott in the arm. "Show off."

Without another word, Scott turned on his heel and began marching towards the house. He paused for a moment and glanced over his shoulder. "Uh, you guys? You coming?"

"Yeah, buddy," Stiles replied as the three of them fell in line. "We're coming."

The stairs leading to up to the house groaned as the four of them walked up the stairs. Charlie could feel the boards buckle slightly under her feet, like they were threatening to splinter and send her crashing to the forest floor. She made a note to tread lightly. A house could only go through so much before it gave in and came crashing down. Muddy boot prints covered the porch, no doubt tracked in by the dozens of police officers who had been there the day before. Scott stepped forwards, making sure that everyone else was securely behind him before he approached the door. It was already ajar, so only a gentle push was needed to send it swinging open, creaking on its hinges as it moved.

The inside of the house looked even more threatening than the outside. It was so dark inside that even the shadows seemed to have shadows. The faintest amount of moonlight trickled in, but where it did it illuminated the shattered windows, making them look like jagged teeth. Scott paused at the doorway and glanced back to the rest of them with a nervous smile. "Maybe we should knock first."

There was a round of humorless snorts. Scott took one more breath but then lifted his foot, moving it forward so it broke the plane of the threshold. Soon enough they all piled in, but stayed grouped close together as they scanned the rooms. As far as they could tell, everything was normal. Creepy as hell, but normal. The word 'normal' had taken on a bit of a new meaning these days.

Charlie's eyes trained in on one spot in particular. The floor of the living room. Amongst all the dust, dirt, and broken glass, there was something else, staining the floor black. And it was right where Kate had fallen. She was staring at what was left of the pool of Kate's blood. Charlie's eyes snapped over to Allison only to find the girl looking at the same spot. She reached out to put a hand on her shoulder—to comfort her in some way—but then stopped herself. It wouldn't be welcomed—not from her. That was Scott's job. She retracted her hand, hoping that nobody had noticed. But Stiles did. Of course Stiles did.

All of the sudden, Stiles cleared his throat, making all of their heads swing in his direction. "We, uh, we should probably split up. You know, cover more ground."

"Wha—are you serious?" Scott protested. "In the horror movies, it's always when they decide to split up that people start getting killed!"

"Well we're not going to be on our own," Stiles insisted. "Charlie and I will take the upstairs and you and Allison can take the downstairs and the basement."

After a few heavily charged glances, they parted ways with Charlie and Stiles picking their way up the disintegrating stairs. Charlie had never been in that part of the house before. The wood was charred and rotting, much like the downstairs, but for some reason it seemed…..different. There were still traces that someone had actually lived there. Curtains, rugs, a broken mirror—the little things that change an empty building into an actual home. It made the whole place seem more…..human. And that made it all the more heartbreaking.

When they got to the top of the stairs, Charlie reached back into her pocket and pulled out her cell, muttering the word 'lumos' before hitting the flashlight function and holding it up. "Alright," she whispered, the darkness around her forcing her to be quiet. "So let's start with the rooms on the left and then move on to the ones on the right." She began to move into the first set of rooms, but Stiles grabbed her shoulder, making her turn back around to face him. He had an uncertain expression on his face that made her frown in response. "What's up?"

Stiles opened and closed his mouth a few times, searching for the right words. "I was just—I mean, I was thinking—" He let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. When he removed his hand from his face, he was staring at her, his eyes full of concern. "Look, I'm sorry. With everything that's going on with Allison…I'm just really, really sorry. It's gotta suck."

Charlie let out a snort and shook her head dismissively. "I have one friend who's a werewolf and another who's part of a lineage of werewolf hunters. You've got nothing to apologize for, Stiles. It's not like anybody could have seen this coming. Like, ever." She did her best to look firm, but Stiles was still looking at her like she was wounded in some way. Which she found really annoying. "We've got work to do," she said pointedly. "Let's find Lydia."

Stiles opened his mouth to say something else, but she spun on her heel and walked into the nearest room. It looked like some kind of music room. Windows covered three of the walls, but all of them had been broken in and there were holes punched into the roof, allowing light to stream through in isolated beams. At the center there was a piano, which at one point might have been majestic, but was now crumbling just like the rest of the house. It screamed of wasted potential. "Alright," Stiles murmured as he followed her through the door. "That's a good talk. Lots of sharing of feelings. Very illuminating. Lots of opening up happening right here in this moment."

"Shut u—up," Charlie sang out, waving her phone about, checking every corner of the room.

"All I'm saying is that it wouldn't kill you to talk a little more," Stiles said from somewhere behind her. She could hear his footsteps as he moved around the room, investigating with her. "I mean Allison's angry, sure, but she's new to all this stuff. She doesn't get it yet."

Charlie's eyes fell on a closet door on the other side of the room. She marched in that direction while Stiles continued on with his monologue. "Maybe it might help if you just talked to her. If you told her everything you've been through, she might understand."

Charlie paused, her hand on the doorknob to the closet. "So let me get this straight," she sighed. "You're actually suggesting that I start talking _more_? As in more than I do now?"

"About the important stuff, yeah," Stiles replied. "I wasn't kidding about you having some communication issues. I mean, I still don't know your middle name."

"I still don't know your first name," Charlie pointed out, raising her eyebrows at him.

Stiles snapped his finger and pointed at her. "And you never will. I will forever be an international man of mystery." He circled around the piano, still glancing around suspiciously. "But that doesn't change the fact that you could be a bit more share-y. Or just apologize again."

Sighing heavily, Charlie wrenched the closet door open, jumping backwards lest anything come flying out at her, but it was empty. Letting out a small grunt of frustration and slammed the door shut. "Stiles, are you losing your hair?" she called out quietly. "You know, receding hairline, little bald patch on the top of the head."

He swung his head around to face her, wearing a perplexed expression. "What? No, of course not. Why?"

"No reason," she murmured. "I was worried for a second that you might be morphing into Dr. Phil."

Stiles let out a low chuckle that didn't sound entirely sincere. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?" Charlie inquired.

"Deflecting anxiety with humor," he shot back. "It's okay to be freaked out, you know."

Charlie paused for a moment. "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is," he insisted. "Seriously, why can't you just let yourself be freaked out?"

Charlie let out a frustrated sigh and ran her hands through her hair before turning to face him. "Because I have a job to do, Stiles. I need to find Lydia. I need to find her right now. And I can't let myself be freaked out until I do find her. So can we just—can we just do this now?"

The irony of the situation was that through that whole ramble, she probably seemed pretty freaked out. And she was. She really was. But somehow pretending not to be helped. If she didn't give in, she stayed functional—she stayed capable. Stiles nodded slowly in understanding. "Okay," he murmured, rubbing at the back of his head. "Okay, yeah, fine. She's not in here. Let's, uh—" he waved his hand around a bit"—let's go check the other rooms."

As they moved out the room, a swooping feeling of guilt washed through Charlie, piling on top of all those other sensations of guilt. Stiles had only been trying to help, and she had basically bitten his head off. Which was ironic given what they were currently doing. She glanced at him out of the corner of eye and scratched absently at her forehead. "It's Evelyn, by the way."

"What?" Stiles asked, frowning slightly.

"My middle name. It's Evelyn."

The tiniest ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "That's an old lady name."

"Shut up, Stilinski."

Bathroom, attic, bedroom—empty, empty, empty. They checked high and low, but Lydia was nowhere to be found. Eventually they found themselves in the last room. Another bedroom. It was just as still as the rest of the rooms, but for some reason it felt different. Charlie slowly moved around, checking the closet and under the bed. Again, empty. She was just about to suggest that they get going when something on the ground made her pause. She moved her iPhone flashlight to the area to inspect closer.

It was a picture frame, fallen so the picture side was on the floor. Silver, ornate without being gaudy, expensive—the kind of small luxury only a truly well-off family would have. Slowly, Charlie kneeled down and picked it up, flipping it over in the hand. The glass front had shattered completely. She shook it away and gingerly pulled out the photo. It was two boys who looked like they were in their mid- to late-teens, smiling at the camera. Both of them looked cocky, but the one on the left—the older one—looked especially smug. She turned the photo over, looking at the back. In the upper right hand corner was neatly written 'Peter and Derek, Summer 2004'.

Charlie stared down at the picture and stood back up. They just looked so….happy. He was smiling. Derek was actually smiling like a human person. And Peter, well he already looked like Peter. Maybe a little less damaged, but just as slick and cunning.

As she stared the photo, a ringing noise began to echo in her ears. It was like that reverberating sound that happens when metal hits metal, but instead of slowly fading away, it got louder and louder and more and more high-pitched. It felt like her eardrums were about to explode. Her heart began to pound in her chest and her breathing began quicker and more ragged. The fear was building up inside her veins. But then she looked up from the photo and it became paralyzing.

The room was on fire. The curtains and the bed were completely engulfed in flame and the wooden floorboards began to twist and contort in the heat. Smoke filled the room, making her eyes water and her lungs burn. She swung her head around, looking for some sort of exit, but all of the doors and windows were totally blocked by a wall of fire. She was trapped. Charlie began to hyperventilate, but that only meant she was sucking in more smoke, which could lead to one thing. She was about to pass out. Her vision began to get blurry and images seemed to be sliding sideways, even though she wasn't moving at all. Next she lost her balance, wobbling on her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her brain to stay awake—to stay functioning.

"Charlie, are you okay?"

The words seemed slow and slurred as they reached her ears—like she was listening to someone speak while her head was under water. Her eyes flew open again. No fire, no smoke—there was just Stiles staring at her. She looked around the room frantically through widened eyes, trying to find some trace of that fire, but there was none. At least not for the past six years. She felt hands gripping each of her shoulders to steady her. Now she couldn't hide the fact that she was trembling.

"Hey, hey, hey," Stiles whispered comfortingly. "Are you okay?

Charlie swallowed heavily and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'm always okay."

He removed his hands from her shoulders, but that worried look was still there. "What was that?"

She pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders casually. "What was what?"

"You just—you just sort of stopped. And then you got this look on your face." He waved his hand in the general direction of his face. "It was like you saw a ghost."

"Nothing," she replied a little too quickly. "Just thinking." She swung her head around, taking in the room. "Lydia's obviously not here. We can't afford to waste any more time. She's still out there."

Stiles opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could Charlie brushed past him, moving down the stairs. A loud harrumph issued forth from somewhere behind her as Stiles followed her. She might have put a stop to the conversation for the present, but Stiles definitely wasn't going to let that little 'episode' go. Hell, he was probably already concocting theories. Which meant that she should probably start coming up with a semi-decent explanation. But for now, she had a good enough distraction. Lydia. Lydia would be enough to keep Stiles's mind occupied for a good long while.

By the time Stiles and Charlie were done, Scott and Allison were already waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. "Any luck?" Allison asked, the tiniest bit of hope in her voice.

"Nope," Stiles replied, shaking his head. "She's not upstairs."

"She wasn't anywhere downstairs either," Scott muttered. He rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced around him one more time before sighing heavily. "She's not here. She might've been before, but she's not anymore."

Disappointment flooded through Charlie, making her feel cold. She wrapped her arms around her waist in some futile attempt to warm herself up. "Okay, so she's not here. Scott can go sniff around and pick up the trail. We can find where she went next." A guilty expression crossed Scott's face, making Charlie feel even colder. "Scott, what's that expression about?"

He let out a heavy sigh and glanced towards the front door. "I already did. Her scent—I can't track it anymore."

"What do you mean 'you can't track it'?" she bit out. "You smelled her all the way from the hospital to here. That's like five miles! How is the trail gone all of the sudden?! That just—it doesn't make any sense!"

"I know," Scott said, waving his hands around in frantic, jerky movements. "It—it doesn't make any sense, but it's just not there anymore. And the smell in the house—it's getting fainter, like the wind is blowing it away or something. I can still smell her, but there's no distinct trail. It's just….everywhere. I can't pinpoint it. She's not here, but I can't tell where she went. It's getting close to ten, and if Allison's parents realize she's gone—"

"Then you get to lose about seventy pounds really, really quickly," Charlie muttered bitterly. "Yeah, I got it."

"Look, maybe we just need to regroup," Stiles interjected, moving so he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Charlie. "We're all running on fumes here. I mean, Charlie, you've gotten like three hours of sleep over the past two days. Honestly I'm not sure how you're still awake right now, let alone functional."

"Cocaine," she answered glibly.

Stiles rolled his eyes at her before continuing. "Look, the point is we all need to be thinking straight. We're not going to help anybody if we can't focus. And plus what are we going to do? Just wander around in the woods and hope that we run into Lydia?"

"Sounds like a solid plan to me," Charlie grumbled, kicking at some of the glass littering the floor. Honestly, there probably wasn't anything she could do at that point. She knew that. But going home felt a little too much like giving up, and she wasn't going to give up on Lydia. Not ever.

"Look," Stiles said, waving his hands around a bit. "Right now we've got no leads. I can go home and check through my dad's stuff. If I find any new information, we can go from there."

"Stiles is right," Allison said. "We can't just stumble around in the dark. We could run straight into my dad. Or worse." She turned to Charlie, looking at her earnestly. "Tomorrow after school. We'll keep looking." Charlie blinked at the sudden demonstration of gentleness. Allison twitched slightly, realizing that she had unconsciously slipped back into their previous friendship. She shifted on her feet and broke eye contact, focusing on the floor instead.

After that, it seemed pretty much decided. Scott decided to stay behind and make sure that he didn't miss anything, while Charlie, Stiles, and Allison all made their way back to the Jeep. Allison quickly clambered into the back bench while Charlie took the spot next to Stiles. She still got the impression that Allison was trying to stay as physically far away from her as possible. Another quick kick to the gut before Stiles started the car.

As they drove off, Charlie felt like she was leaving a piece of herself behind in that house. What scared her, though, was she wasn't sure what the origin of that feeling was. She told herself that it was because Lydia had been there—that she felt that way because she was leaving behind her friend. But another part of her thought that maybe it was because of something else. Because of what Peter did to her. She shoved her hands deep into her jacket pockets, closing herself off, but her right hand came into contact with something. Paper. It was thick, glossy on one side, matte on the other. It was the photo—the one of Derek in Peter. During her trance or whatever the hell it was, she must have put it in her pocket. As if things hadn't gotten weird enough already.

The drive home was quiet, none of them speaking. They were way too wrapped up in their own thoughts to actually talk to each other. Allison insisted that they drop her off a few blocks away from her house. As soon as she was out of the car, she went all 'stealth-ninja', creeping around in the bushes and becoming basically invisible. For someone who had only known the truth about her family for about two weeks, she was taking to it really quickly. Charlie doubted that the Argents would even have the slightest idea that she was gone.

Finally, they arrived in front of Charlie's house. The driveway was still empty. Mel was still at the shop. It was probably a good thing—it meant less questions—but the idea of being alone right now…..it wasn't something she was looking forward to. The Jeep idled in the driveway, the engine still running, but Charlie didn't make a move to unbuckle her seatbelt. She just sat there silently. Her eyes moved up to rearview mirror where she saw the Martin house across the street. The light was still on. Mrs. Martin was home, but Charlie got the feeling that she wouldn't be sleeping at all either.

"We're going to find her, Charlie," Stiles said. She could feel him looking at her, but she didn't take her gaze off the house. In the corner of her eye, she saw Stiles shift so that his arm was propped up on the seat behind and he was facing her. "Scott's not gonna give up until he finds her. Neither am I. Neither are you. We've got a combined stubbornness level that is so ridiculously high that we can't not find her. It's a statistical impossibility."

A tiny smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"No, Stiles," Charlie murmured. She finally turned to face him fully. "I mean thanks for everything. For keeping me sane these past couple of days. And for putting up with me when I get all…..me-like. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around sometimes." She sighed and shot him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry I called you Dr. Phil."

Stiles let out a loud snort and shook his head. "I can see why you would," he shot back, a bit of humor in his voice. "I am remarkably emotionally understanding with a deep knowledge of the human condition."

Charlie rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You're an idiot is what you are."

"Hey!" Stiles exclaimed, placing a hand over his heart like she had wounded him. "That's very hurtful."

Charlie smiled at him for a moment before reaching to unbuckle her seatbelt. Stiles's face fell slightly, like he was disappointed. But she wasn't getting out of the car. Not yet. As soon as she was free of her seatbelt, she reached over and pulled him into a tight hug. It didn't even take half a second before he hugged back, wrapping his arms around her waist. Charlie buried her face into his shoulder and tightened her hold on him. He felt like an anchor, tethering her to the earth and keeping her from floating away on a cloud of her own panic.

For a long time, neither of them showed any sign of letting go. For some reason, their kiss popped into her mind. How it had made her feel—excited and nervous and safe and comfortable all at once. She found herself wondering if he was thinking about the same thing, but that wasn't likely. He was probably thinking about Lydia wandering around out there, cold and alone, like she should be. Slowly, Charlie released him and pulled back. "I should—I should probably get inside," she murmured, jerking her thumb in the direction of her house.

"Y—yeah," Stiles stammered, nodding along with her words. "Yeah, sure. Get some sleep."

"You too." Charlie clambered out of the car and slammed it behind her, but before heading up the steps to her house, she paused in the window. She wrapped her knuckles nervously against the window sill. "Look, if you find out anything, and I mean anything….I don't care what time it is, just—"

"Call you," Stiles finished for her. "Yeah, I will."

Charlie pressed her lips together into a thin line and nodded at him. "Thanks again, Stiles. For everything."

His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he looked at her. "Yeah. Always."

The front door to her house seemed daunting as she approached it. For some reason she felt like there was something waiting for her on the other side for her. Stiles didn't leave until she had her front door open. She paused at the doorframe and waved goodbye before he drove off. When his car disappeared around the corner, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

The house almost felt alien to her now. Over the course of the past few days, it felt like her life had shifted. The hospital seemed more like home than this place did now. It was like her life had been divided into two distinct parts—before Lydia was attacked, and after. Charlie—her being—belonged to the era after the attack. Everything in her house came from before.

Her feet dragged as she made her way up the stairs. They felt heavier somehow, like they had been encased in lead. For the past couple of hours, all she had been running of was adrenaline and Snickers, and even those two things could only do so much. Her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her that it was completely empty, but she didn't have the energy to make herself anything to eat. All she could do was sleep.

Charlie walked straight to her room and switched on the light before shrugging out of her jacket. She tossed the jacket aside and moved towards that floor-length mirror that was installed on the door to her closet. Against the glass she had taped a picture of her and Lydia—one of those cheesy facebook photos where you pose cheek-to-cheek. Lydia was blowing kisses at the camera and Charlie was rolling her eyes—it kind of summed up their friendship if you thought about it. As she looked at it, a hollow feeling began building up in her chest. She wanted to cry—to sob with grief and let it all out—but she wasn't built that way. There was no release, only internalization of the pain. Eventually she dragged her eyes away from the picture to her reflection, to get a good look at the person she blamed for all this mess. Only it wasn't just her reflection.

"What the hell!"

She spun around to look behind her, only to find Derek Hale sitting in the shadows at the other end of the room, looking like some sort of mediocre supervillain. The panic that shot through her veins dissipated just as quickly and she slammed her fist to her forehead in frustration. "Hasn't anybody ever told you it's rude not to knock? And to break and enter?" She sucked in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose before looking back up at him. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here."

"Really?" Derek asked, slowly standing from his spot. "How do you figure that?"

"Well first of all I don't remember sending an invitation," Charlie growled.

"You show up at my house uninvited all the time," he pointed out. "Last time you shot at it. A lot."

Charlie ground her teeth, struggling to keep her composure. Between the sleep deprivation, resentment, grief, and general feeling of rage, she kind of felt like hitting someone. Something told her hitting Derek would not be a good idea. "Second of all," she bit out carefully, "you kind of epically screwed over a friend of mine. You remember Scott, right? Yay tall, big, soulful brown eyes, dark hair, trying to cure himself of being a werewolf? Someone you promised to help? I gotta say Derek, I though you were a lot of things—broody, tortured, incapable of expressing human emotion—but self-serving backstabber wasn't really on the list."

There was a small flicker in Derek's eyes—almost undetectable, but Charlie had caught it. At least he had the decency to be a little bit ashamed of himself. Charlie squared her shoulders and folded her arms across her chest, staring him down. "If you're looking for Scott, he's not here. I don't know where he is anymore."

"I'm not here about Scott," Derek growled.

"Then why are you here?" Charlie spat. Her mind jumped back to that dream—the teeth, the pain, the blood. "Are you here to finish what Peter started? Kill me or turn me, is that the deal?"

Derek's face darkened visibly and he took a small step towards her. "Do you think that's why I'm here?"

Charlie exhaled sharply and threw her hands in the air in frustration. "Honestly? I don't know. You went from being the bad guy to the good guy to the 'I'm-not-sure' guy to the bad guy again. You helped and then you stomped on any bit of hope Scott had. And for what? So your eyes could glow red and you could be a little bit more badass? I have no idea which version of you is showing up tonight, so why don't you stop wasting my time and tell me."

Derek's spine straightened, bringing him to his full height. Suddenly Charlie felt especially small and insignificant. "The bite is a gift," Derek said, his voice low and harsh. He took a few more steps towards Charlie. She stood her ground, but she felt her heart rate spike, a detail that would not go unnoticed by Derek. He came to a stop a few feet in front of her and stared down at her with that weird intensity of his. "Do you want it?"

"What the hell do you think?" she whispered back. "Do I want it?"

Derek exhaled sharply, something almost resembling a laugh. "You don't want it," he replied. "Or at least you don't think you do."

Charlie let out a groan and rolled her eyes dramatically. "Thank you, Mr. Cryptic, for those lovely insights into my own psyche."

As soon as she got those words out, it started happening again. Not like it had in the house—not that clear harrowing image of the room on fire—but like it had in the hospital. The flashes, the screams, the pain—it was all back again. Charlie grabbed the doorknob of the closet to steady herself and pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. Her stomach twisted and contorted and she ground her teeth together to force back the scream. And then it was gone. Charlie gulped down some breaths and shook her head to rid herself of those images again.

"What was that?" Derek growled. "What just happened to you?"

"That's how I react when I find a conversation boring," Charlie replied. Her spine straightened and she turned towards him, staring him down with as much confidence as she could muster. "Now how's about we get to the point before I have a full-on seizure. Why are you here?"

Derek continued to eye her skeptically. Almost suspiciously, even. Like he was staring at a pile of clues and trying to figure out what they added up to. And his suspicion only served to make Charlie more nervous. Soon enough, though, he switched back into that familiar aggressive look of his. "Tell me about Lydia."

The hand that was encircling the closet doorknob instinctively tightened. The Argents were already speculating on Lydia and her humanity. If Derek was doing the same thing, that couldn't be a good sign. She cleared her throat and shrugged nonchalantly. "She's a stubborn, redheaded Aries who loves long walks on the beach and Chanel No. 5."

Derek cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at her. "You know that's not what I meant. What's happening to her?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know that?" Charlie spat, pointing at herself. "You're the one with all the supernatural knowledge. Shouldn't you be telling me?"

"I wasn't in the hospital. I don't know the details. Is she turning?"

At that question, Charlie felt her confidence waver. Sighing heavily, she released the doorknob she was still clutching and crossed her room and perched herself on the edge of her bed. Did she trust Derek? No, not fully. Not even a lot. But when it came to the supernatural, he was the only one who had any answers for her. And if she didn't give him the information, he would just find it out somewhere else. "I don't know," she whispered, staring down at her own feet. "There's no supernatural healing. And the doctors…they said she was having an allergic reaction to the bite. But she didn't die." She looked up at him, her eyes questioning. "Has that ever happened before? Receiving the bite but not turning or dying? Is that possible?"

Derek began to pace back and forth, his shoulders rigid. "Not that I've ever heard before, but….it could be happen." He turned to her and let his eyes bore into hers. "Do you know anything else?"

Charlie gnawed anxiously at her fingernails. She could tell Derek the details of Lydia's disappearance, she could tell him that they had tracked her to his house, but she didn't. Her trust in him didn't extend that far. Charlie wanted Lydia found more than just about anything, but even that desire was contingent upon something—who found her. She disliked the idea of Derek finding her almost as much as the idea of the Argents finding her. Because what she told Stiles earlier was true—as much as she might understand Derek's motivations, she couldn't predict what he would do. And she didn't want anything to do with Lydia to be left to chance. "No," she said with a shake of the head. "That's it."

If Derek could tell that she was lying, he didn't give any indication of it. But maybe it was because he was distracted. Just then, Derek stopped his pacing and his head snapped in the direction of the window. It was a few more moments before Charlie heard the sound of a car approaching. Mel's car. "I need to go," Derek grumbled, making his way towards the window.

Charlie threw herself to her feet and whipped around, fixing him with her gaze. "If you hurt her, I will kill you. I don't know how, but I will. And it will be painful, and profoundly gross. That's a promise."

Derek paused at the window and looked back at Charlie. "I'm not going to hurt her." He yanked open the window and stared out at the street. "Anyways, she's not the only one you have to worry about."

Charlie blinked in surprise. She opened her mouth to ask him what he could possibly have meant by that, but he disappeared. She was left staring at an empty window, the wind causing the curtains to billow inward in an eerie way. The cool breeze hit her, making her shiver, and she strode forwards to pull the window shut. Almost at the same time, she heard the front door slam closed. Mel was home. Charlie couldn't face her right now. After the night she had had, she couldn't stare into the face of someone she cared about and tell yet another massive lie.

In a flurry of action, Charlie stripped off her clothes and changed into a baggy T-shirt and sweatpants, shut off all the lights, and climbed into bed. She pulled the covers up to her neck and burrowed in deep, like somehow those few layers of cloth would protect her from the outside world. She didn't need them—not her. But Lydia did. Wandering around in the cold, she needed them.

After a few moments, Charlie heard footsteps coming up the stairs followed by her door creaking open. A thin beam of light crept through the door, hitting her in the face, but she kept her eyes closed, breathing softly and pretending to be asleep. The mattress sank slightly as someone sat down next to her. A soft, small hand pushed the hair out of her face and then a pair of lips pressed against her forehead. The mattress stayed sunken at that one point for a few minutes before the pressure lifted. She heard light footsteps moving away from her, and then the door to her bedroom closed again, leaving her alone in the dark.

For a long time, Charlie's mind jumped around. There was no shortage of anxiety- and insomnia-inducing topics for her to agonize over. After a while, though, her mind began to slow down. The adrenaline had finally faded away and the mental and physical exhaustion were catching up with her. She felt like she was sinking, almost melting into the mattress and pillow below her, until finally sleep claimed her.

**There you go. I really, really hope you liked it.**

**By the way, Tania asked earlier if I had a Wattpad account with the same username. I do. I didn't know what Wattpad was until a few weeks ago. Somebody on that site had ripped off 'Black Water'. Basically they changed the title and changed Charlie's last name to 'Johnson' and copied the rest word for word. I confronted them, and they took it down, and as a deterrent I developed my own account.**

**Anyways, please review! I really love to hear from you guys and each review warms my heart.**

**SOUNDTRACK UPDATE:**

**Charlie and Stiles investigate the upstairs rooms and Charlie hallucinates that the house is on fire.**\

**-~-~-~-'Don't Go' by Dillon  
**

**Charlie arrives back at her house, talks with Derek, reflects on the day, and goes to sleep.**

**-~-~-~-'Intro' and 'Keep It Healthy' by Warpaint**


	3. I'm Friends With a Monster Under My Bed

**Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.**

**A huge thank you to DarlingPeterPan, narusakulove97, bagginsofthesihre666, easythrowaway, Gee Brittany, heroherondaletotheresuce, BrightEyes20, winchesterxgirl, kittycat166, MikaHimura, emmy72, Daenerys86, YellowSubmarine93, Montanasmith5897, beautifulgreek523, Shes-The-Proto-Type, FairyKiller, nessafly, TheMMMG, Guest 1, swanqueen4, taytayfanatical, Bookiee, katiesgotagun, Tania, Aobhinn, ChaleseWinchester789, Jaiime95, SimplyKelly, Female whovian, TWsos12345, Marrow365, aguaysed, AlexMelRose, Thelastbuzz, Allie, and imrid-amrad-ursul for reviewing! I seriously appreciate it. And a huge thank you to BrittWitt16 for her genius.  
**

**Please forgive any grammar mistakes and stuff. It's like 4am and I'm saying 'screw it' and posting it anyway. I hope you like it!**

**Oh, also, if you want to check out Charlie's clothes or the soundtrack I have links to my Polyvore account and my Spotify account on my profile. Check them out!**

Chapter 3 – I'm Friends with the Monster under My Bed

Her head was about to explode. Literally explode. Like 'brain matter all over the ceiling', B-grade horror movie special effects explode. Or at least that's what it felt like.

Her alarm clock was louder than usual. It had to be. It was screeching at her like one of those alarms that warns you that the nuclear core of a submarine was about to melt down and send dozens of people to a firey and watery end. Charlie burrowed deeper under her covers, pulling them up around her head in a feeble attempt to block out the noise and the world around her. Like as long as she was under those covers, none of that 'other stuff' had actually happened. But it didn't work. The sound of the alarm cut through those flimsy blankets like a hot knife through butter, leaving her head pounding in time with the beep.

Charlie held out as long as she could until the beeping got to her—a full minute and a half—before letting out a loud groan and throwing the covers away and slamming a hand down on the alarm clock to make it shut the hell up. Even when the beeping had stopped, though, she could still feel it faintly ringing in her ears like a distant echo. It took her a while to finally get to her feet, and once she did, it was like she was on autopilot.

Getting ready for school seemed so utterly mundane after the night she had just had. Hell, it almost felt callous doing those little things—brushing your teeth, showering, putting on makeup—when Lydia was still out there. But she did it anyway. As soon as she made it to the bathroom, Charlie went straight to the medicine cabinet and grabbed the Advil, popping them into her mouth like candy and gulping down water. Her head was aching. She turned to the shower, ready to wash off the dirt and grief of the previous night, but paused before climbing in. For a second all she could remember was that empty hospital bathroom with the shower left running. Sighing heavily, she stepped in, allowing the scalding water to wash over her.

Peter had been in her dream again last night. And again, his presence there didn't make any sense. She had been wandering around in the woods, but the trees were so close together they formed walls, guiding her movements. It was a maze—a labyrinth—and she remembered being certain that Lydia was at the center, waiting for Charlie to find her. But Charlie didn't find Lydia. No, she rounded a corner, and found herself staring at none other than Peter Hale. She supposed his presence in her dream could have had some logical consistency to it. He could represent some sort of obstacle for her to overcome in her quest to find her friend. But he didn't. Instead he just followed her around while she looked, giving an extraordinarily detailed account of the plot of the movie 'Die Hard'. He was completely incongruous—he didn't _fit_—but he was still there.

Charlie tried to wash away those thoughts like she washed the shampoo from her hair. When she stepped out of the shower, she wiped away the steam clinging to the mirror and stared at her own reflection for a few moments. "Suck it up, Oswin."

Little thought was put into her outfit—even less than usual. She reached into her closet pretty much blindly and grabbed a loose-fitting, crop top with floral design, a pair of green, higher-waisted jeans, her Converse, and a leather jacket. Reaching a hand behind her neck, her fingers brushed against the, large, twisted, knot-like scabs that still marred her skin. She needed to hide them somehow. Going back into her closet, she fished around until she found a simple black scarf and wrapped it around her neck. She dabbed on her makeup, paying special attention to the dark circles under her eyes, yanked a comb through her hair a few times, and braided it messily before snatching up her messenger bag and jogging down the stairs.

By the time Charlie made it down the stairs, the smell of coffee was already wafting from the kitchen. She inhaled deeply, savoring the rich scent, but when she rounded the corner what she saw made her choke on her own breath. Mel was already up, darting around the kitchen in her satiny blue robe, and for some inexplicable reason there were mixing bowls and a waffle iron on the counter. A waffle iron which was currently emitting a cloud of thick, black smoke. Mel grabbed the plug to the waffle iron and yanked it from the outlet before snatching up and cutting board and using it to fan blow the smoke away. "Crap, crap, crap, crap."

Charlie dropped her bag by the door and entered the kitchen taking small, hesitant steps. "Um, Mel?" she asked hesitantly. "What are you doing?"

Mel didn't turn around to look at her, instead grabbing all the various and sundry cooking instruments and chucking them into the sink. "What does it look like I'm doing?" she called out over her shoulder, sounding a little bit out of breath. "I'm making waffles. What else could I possibly be doing?"

Letting out an amused and slightly patronizing snort, Charlie moved to the kitchen island and slid into one of the stools. "Committing arson," she replied snarkily. "I thought we established the last time you almost burnt down the kitchen that you and cooking are never going to hold hands and skip off into the sunset together. It was never meant to be. You just need to let it go."

Mel grabbed a potholder and carefully approached the waffle iron before opening it up and discarding the contents in the trash. "I will not give up," she said carefully. "Because this is what people do."

"People try and light their kitchens on fire?"

"No," she shot back. "People bring food. Whenever you need to feel better, people bring food." She sighed heavily and stared at the contents of the sink. "I probably should just stick to the bakery, shouldn't I?"

"It's the thought that counts," Charlie murmured.

"It's also the chocolate that counts," Mel replied. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a small cardboard box. "Chocolate croissants. Always have a contingency plan, Charlie. Always." With that, Mel finally turned around to plop the box on the kitchen island and looked at Charlie for the first time and blinked. "What are you doing?"

Charlie frowned slightly at the sudden shift in demeanor. "Um, I'm getting breakfast?"

"No," Mel said, shaking her. "You're dressed for school."

Charlie wrinkled her nose, making a weird face at her aunt. "Well spotted, Mel. You might not be a cook, but you could be a detective. Your powers of perception are breathtaking."

"Why are you dressed?" Mel asked.

"Because last I checked this wasn't a nudist household. Is my clothedness surprising to you?"

Mel huffed loudly rolled her eyes. "You know that's not what I meant, Charlie. I just didn't think you'd….I just figured you would have a hard time getting ready. With everything that's happened." She sighed and folded her arms over her chest, looking at Charlie with sympathy. "The sheriff called me late last night. He told me what happened at the hospital. I'm so sorry. I know if I were you I'd probably be an emotional basketcase."

Charlie inhaled sharply, but shrugged with as much casualness as possible. "Oh, come on, Mel. If we all stopped our lives when our best friend has a mental break and decides to go on a naked field trip through the woods, none of us would ever get anything done."

Mel looked at Charlie, her face full of sympathy. "Charlie, sweetie, you know you don't have to put on a brave face like this. It doesn't have to be business as usual. You can—"

"You want me to cope," Charlie interrupted. She let the façade fall for a moment and looked at Mel poignantly. "This is how I cope, Mel. I go on. I keep acting the same and say stupid and probably inappropriate things. Because if I didn't go on acting like everything was okay, all I would be able to do is revel in how not okay it actually is. Does that make sense?"

Mel pressed her lips together in a thin line and nodded with reluctant understanding. She circled around the kitchen island and came up behind Charlie, wrapping her in a hug and resting her chin on Charlie's shoulder. "You know, you….you are so much like your father," she whispered. "I swear, sometimes you'll be sitting there and you'll have this look in your eyes, and I can swear I'm staring straight at him. He was always the strong one out of the two of us—he always protected me. When I was younger I used to think he was this—this superhero, that he could never get hurt. He was invincible. It took me a really, really long time—years, even—to see that he wasn't. He always put everything on him." Mel removed her arms from around Charlie and spun the stool around so they were facing each other. "You don't have to do that Charlie. I'm here to help you with anything. I know you probably won't ask, but I just needed to tell you that."

Swallowing heavily, Charlie nodded at her aunt. "I know that, Mel. I've always known that."

Mel sighed and lifted her hand up to Charlie's cheek, gently brushing her thumb against the skin. "But you haven't needed me yet."

Charlie had been staring straight into Mel's eyes through the whole speech, but now she looked away. Suddenly she felt more than a little bit ashamed of herself. She just couldn't stop letting people down. Lydia, Allison, and now Mel. She was pretty sure Stiles was the next one to cross off that list. Mel seemed to pick up on the train of thought, because she grabbed hold of Charlie's chin and forced the girl to look at her. "Hey, it's okay," Mel insisted. "You've barely been here six months. We'll get there."

A relieved breath issued forth from Charlie's mouth as she looked at Mel. If there existed on this earth a single perfect human being, it was probably Mel. Her lips quirked up in a small smile. "I love you."

Mel smirked widely and stood straight. "I know."

Charlie blinked at the turn of phrase and slowly got to her feet. "Mel…." She drawled out, folding her arms across her chest. "Did you just make a 'Star Wars' reference?"

"Before Harrison Ford climbs into the giant, industrial-sized freezer," the woman said with a shrug. "You kept rambling about it and I figured I should find out what you were so excited about."

"And?"

She blew out a long breath and stared absently out the window. "I just—I just don't understand the point of the Ewoks. They look like dirty, homeless Care-bears."

"You shut your mouth," Charlie growled.

Mel threw her hands up in the air, like Charlie had just pulled a gun on her and began backing away slowly. "Okay," she declared, fighting back a good-natured laugh. "So I might not like 'Star Wars' and I might not be able to cook you breakfast, but could I at least fix your hair? Seriously, it's kind of a disaster. A beautiful disaster, but still a disaster."

About ten minutes later, Charlie was leaving the house with a croissant and a neatly arranged French braid. As she approached her car, she checked her phone. No messages from Scott or Stiles. No new information. Charlie's hand tightened around the phone, squeezing so tight she was surprised it didn't fracture into pieces.

Sliding into her car, Charlie sat behind the steering wheel for a few moments. School wasn't for almost another hour, but she had no idea what to do with herself. She couldn't just sit around, twiddling her thumbs and having a lazy morning. For a moment she considered breaking into the coach's office and moving all the items on his desk three inches to the left, but she couldn't do that either. There was one thing that she needed to do—that she was supposed to do—and that was to find Lydia. Unfortunately she had no idea where to start.

A glimmering flash of light caught her eye and Charlie glanced in its direction, finding herself staring at her dad's old St. Christopher's medallion. A humorless snort forced its way out of her nose. She wasn't quite sure what the use the patron saint of travelers was if she didn't know what her destination was. Still, though, she reached forward and took hold of it, removing the chain from where it was slung around the rearview mirror. She brought the cold metal up to her face and pressed her lips against it before bringing the chain over her head and tucking the ornament under the neckline of her shirt. She could use all the luck she could get on a day like this one.

"Suck it up, Oswin."

Shoving her keys into the ignition, Charlie revved the engine of her car loudly before taking off down the street. She rolled down the windows and blasted the music loud. It left her mind numb, and numb was definitely better than the alternative. The wind whipped through her hair, sending the stray hairs flying about. Her face stung slightly as they hit skin, but it was oddly satisfying. It felt liberating, breathing in the fresh air.

Charlie flew down the street at a speed that probably violated one or more traffic regulations, until she saw something in the distance. Blue and red lights cut through the remains of the morning mist. Charlie's foot hit the brakes and she slowed the car down, her breath catching in her throat. Hope and fear filled her simultaneously, mixing together to form an emotion she couldn't quite describe. They found something. They had to have found something. She pulled to the side of the road and threw the car into park and grabbed her bag before practically exploding through the door.

At first Charlie didn't realize where she was. She was so preoccupied trying to get to those beige uniforms, it wasn't until she practically tripped over a gravestone that she acknowledged she was in the cemetery. Pausing at the line of crime scene tape, she let her eyes rake over the scene. It looked like something out of the Twilight Zone. There was a gaping hole in the ground, probably for a fresh grave. Kate's grave. Charlie inhaled sharply at the sight of it, but forced her mind not to dwell. There was way, way too much else going on. Especially with what was next to it. Another open grave, only that one wasn't neatly excavated. The dirt had been ripped away, like somebody was trying to burrow into the grave.

Shaking her head, she cast off that strange trance she had been dragged into and continued to look around. Finally her eyes fell on a khaki uniform connected to the back of a head that she found quite familiar. She grabbed the caution tape and yanked it up before ducking under it and making a beeline for that particular person. As she marched with determination, another figure appeared in her plane of vision. Deputy Sean happened to glance in her direction and did the most dramatic double take she had ever seen. He immediately locked in on her position and began to shake his head at her. "No. No way. No, no, no, no, no."

Luckily enough for Charlie, he was standing a couple of yards off. She just flashed him a wide smile and continued on her way. "Hey, Sean!" she called out with a wave. "So nice to see you. Good times."

"You can't be here," he shouted. He pointed dramatically at the crime scene tape. "Get back behind there right now."

Charlie ignored him and kept walking to the center of the cemetery where three people were standing around an open grave. "Sheriff Stilinski?"

At the sound of her voice, the sheriff's shoulders tensed slightly. Letting out an audible sigh, he turned around slowly with a wince etched into his features and surveyed her with a look that seemed to be equal parts sympathy and frustration. She jogged over to them and by chance happened to glance into the gaping pit in the ground. Something had crudely ripped into the dirt and through the wood of the coffin, revealing the resting corpse. Charlie's eyebrows shot up into her hairline as she stared down at the thing. "What the hell?"

"Charlie?"

Another younger voice reached her ears, causing her gaze to slide past the sheriff to the people standing behind him. One of them . "Isaac?" she demanded, frowning in confusion. She barely knew him, but it felt so strangely out of context to run into him like this, especially given his appearance. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, his hair was unkempt, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Or at least under the right eye. Any traces of exhaustion that might have been on the left had been covered up by a fresh, mottled purple bruise. Charlie's forehead creased as she took in his appearance. Under her scrutiny, Isaac's shoulders slumped, giving him a closed off look. He stared at his shoes and kicked absently at the grass. The silence built up to a special level of awkwardness. Unfortunately, the statement that broke that silence only served to make things more awkward.

"Well look at that," the man standing next to Isaac said smugly, clapping a hand on Isaac's shoulder. "We found a girl your age who actually talks to you." Then he turned to Charlie and smiled a creepy smile that made her feel slimy. Charlie folded her arms across her chest and curled her lip slightly.

"Who are you and why?" she muttered, looking him up and down through narrowed eyes.

"He's my dad," Isaac answered, nervously glancing at the man. "What, uh, what are you doing here?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm the one that's supposed to ask that question," the sheriff interrupted. He grabbed Charlie by the arm and pulled her a few feet away, out of earshot of the other two. He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "You're supposed to be in school."

"Not for like twenty minutes," she said with a shrug. "I've got some time."

"You know that crime scene tape?" the sheriff continued raising his eyebrows and gesturing over her shoulder. "The stuff that's bright yellow, says 'Do Not Cross', and is way, way over there? You're not supposed to cross it."

"Really?" Charlie chirped. "I thought it was more of a suggestion. You know, a helpful hint."

"It doesn't say 'we kindly suggest that you do not cross the line'," he replied shortly. "It says 'Do NOT Cross'. As in 'don't'."

"Well I'll file that away for future reference," she said with a shrug.

Sheriff Stilinski sighed and scratched absently at his forehead. "And when you open up that file, you're just going to ignore it, aren't you?"

"Obviously."

The sheriff glanced over his shoulder at Isaac and his dad who were still standing there silently. Mr. Lahey appeared to be getting angrier and angrier, checking his watch and glaring at pretty much everything in sight. It took her about two seconds to decide that she did not like him. At all. The man noticed her looking at him and smiled broadly. Charlie made a face and shivered in response. Creepy. She leaned slightly towards the sheriff, her voice coming out as a whisper. "Can we arrest him for something, please?"

The sheriff let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a snort and turned back to face her. "Okay, first of all," he murmured, holding up a finger, "'we' don't arrest people. I arrest people. And second of all, what exactly do I arrest him for?"

Charlie pursed her lips in thought and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. "I don't know. Leering. Jaywalking. Driving while creepy. Make something up."

"What are you doing out here, Charlie?" Sheriff Stilinski said with a frustrated sigh.

"Bird watching," Charlie quipped. "I though I saw a Scarlet Tanager and just couldn't help myself."

"That's a ridiculous answer."

"A ridiculous answer for a ridiculous question." Sheriff Stilinski blinked at the bluntness, but then his gaze softened. Charlie blew out a long breath and chewed on her lip, shifting into a more serious tone. "I saw the police lights and had to stop. Have you found anything? And I mean anything. And what the hell is going on with that body?" The sheriff glanced hesitantly back at Isaac and his father. "You know I'm going to find out anyway," Charlie pressed. "Anything I might find out now I would absolutely find out in twenty minutes."

"Really?" The sheriff folded his arms across his chest and shifted on his feet so that he was staring her down. "How do you figure that?"

"Because I sit next to Stiles in first period," she replied easily. "The only thing you sending me away would do is leave me with a few more minutes anxiety."

The sheriff opened his mouth and closed it again, looking for some other argument to throw in her general direction, but as soon as she played the 'Stiles card' they both knew her knowing every intimate detail of the case was pretty much inevitable. He still looked like he was on the fence, but then Mr. Lahey prodded him into a decision.

"Excuse me? Are we supposed to be standing here all day?"

Hearing the grating voice behind him, the sheriff looked up at the sky like he was saying a silent prayer before shifting his gaze back to Charlie. He simply inclined his head in the direction of Isaac and his dad, indicating for her to follow him back over there. Charlie pumped a fist in the air in victory making the sheriff roll his eyes at her. "You're lucky I like you," he growled as they walked towards the Laheys.

"I look in the mirror and tell myself that every day," she quipped back, eliciting yet another eye roll.

"You let me do the talking," the sheriff insisted. "I don't want to hear a single word out of your mouth from this moment forward."

"Aye-aye, captain," Charlie shot back with a salute.

"What did I just say?" the sheriff said, groaning in frustration. Charlie pressed her lips together in a thin line and mimed locking them shut. "Good."

Apparently Mr. Lahey didn't like waiting. Any degree of goodwill or cheerfulness he might have held earlier in the conversation had vanished entirely and he was left there, scowling. "Can we move this along?" he demanded, no small measure of hostility in his voice. "I have work to do."

"Of course," Sheriff Stilinski said, ignoring the hostility being directed at him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and that weirdly official looking pad of paper that cops always carry before fixing Isaac with a serious stare. "Okay. Let's take this from the beginning. Name?"

Isaac glanced over at Charlie, probably wondering what the hell she was still doing there. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jackets. "It's, uh, Lahey," he muttered nervously. "Isaac Lahey."

"You work for your father, Isaac?"

"When he's not in school," Mr. Lahey interjected. "Which is where he needs to be in twenty minutes." He jerked his chin in Charlie's direction. "Her too."

"I understand that," Sheriff Stilinski assured him. "But we've got a missing teenage girl and our K9 unit led us here."

Charlie was surprised her neck didn't break given the force which it snapped around. How could Lydia have made it all the way out here? They were miles away from the hospital and from Derek's house. How could she possibly have made it to all of those places in one night? And why? It made a tiny bit of sense that she would go to Derek's, but the local cemetery? Charlie studied the sheriff's face, looking for any hints that his expression might betray. "Hold on," she interjected, holding a hand out to pause the conversation. "She was here? Lydia was here? You're sure?"

The sheriff shifted on his feet and shot her a reproving look. "Remember that little agreement we had where you didn't talk."

"We didn't pinky swear so it doesn't count."

Ignoring her, the sheriff turned back to the questioning. "Look, this girl—she's not wearing any clothes and if she's out here tonight and the temperature really drops—"

"I—I'm sorry," Isaac stammered out, shaking his head. He seemed unsure, even shifty. Like he knew more than he was saying, but wasn't sure how to say it. "I, uh, I didn't see anything."

At that point Mr. Lahey let out a derisive bark of laughter. "Trust me. If he saw a naked girl outside a computer screen, he'd remember."

Isaac's eyes widened in embarrassment, making eye contact with Charlie for about half a second before he flushed red and stared intently at his feet. Mr. Lahey continued to laugh jovially at his son's expense. She stared at him in disbelief, her lip curled slightly. Nope. She didn't like him at all. And given that mark on Isaac's face, she had a sickening feeling that the abuse wasn't limited to the verbal variety. Apparently Sheriff Stilinski was thinking along the same lines. He glanced back and forth between father and son, a suspicious expression on his face.

"How did you get that black eye, Isaac?"

Suddenly the air around the four of them seemed to become very thick. The level of tension around them all skyrocketed. Mr. Lahey turned to look at Isaac through harsh, narrowed eyes. It was a charged look, almost like the man was giving him instructions. Something neither she nor the sheriff missed. "School," Isaac replied tersely.

"School fight?" the sheriff pressed.

Isaac pressed his lips together in a thin line and gave a single shake of the read. "No. Lacrosse."

"Lacrosse? You play for Beacon Hills?"

"Yeah," Isaac nodded.

"My son plays for the team. Well I mean, he's—he's on the team. He doesn't technically play, but….Not yet anyways, but—"

As the sheriff spoke, Isaac seemed to tune him out. His gaze slipped away from the man standing in front of him to just over his shoulder at the woods lining the cemetery. Frowning to herself, Charlie glanced over her shoulder to see what he was looking at, but nothing was there. Except for a suspicious rustling of leaves. "Something wrong, Isaac?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, reclaiming the boy's attention.

"Uh, um, no," Isaac stammered. "Sorry. J—just remembering I have a morning practice to get to."

The sheriff nodded in understanding and flipped his notebook closed before stowing it in his pocket. "Just one more question." He gestured down at the open grave. "You guys get many grave robberies here?

"A few," Isaac said with a shrug. "Usually they just take stuff like jewelry."

"What did this one take?"

Isaac glanced at Charlie, the tiniest bit of a wince appearing on his face. "Her liver," he answered bluntly.

"Her liver," Charlie repeated, seeking out confirmation. She wasn't sure she believed what her ears were telling her she had just heard. "The grave robber took her liver. As in the organ."

"Yeah," Isaac muttered, nodding a bit.

Charlie's face scrunched up into an expression of extreme distaste. "I don't even want to begin to think about what they're going to do with that."

Isaac let out a weak snort and a tiny half-smile formed on his face. He looked like he was about to say something in response, but before he got a chance his dad clapped a hand on his shoulder, making him twitch reflexively. The man looked around at all of them with a dour expression. "As much as I would love for this to turn into an ice cream social, my son needs to get to school. With all the questioning he's missed the bus which means that I have to drive him. So unless there's anything else you need from him, we'll be on our way."

Charlie bit her lip in thought. More had happened in the graveyard last night than Isaac had admitted to, that much was for sure. There was too much weird going on. And all indicators pointed straight to Lydia. But she couldn't just accept that. Not yet. She just didn't have enough information. For all she knew, Lydia _did_ do this. And the person with the best idea of what actually had happened was standing right in front of her. Isaac was acting really jumpy. Hell, he probably saw exactly what happened and convinced himself he was going crazy. But regardless of what he thought, he had information that she needed.

"I could give you a ride to school," she threw in, waving her hand a bit. Isaac twitched in surprise at the suggestion, so she offered up a tiny smile to reassure him. It didn't work.

Isaac's mouth opened and closed a few times, looking between her and his dad. "Y—you really don't have to do that if you don't want t—"

That smug, creepy smile returned to Mr. Lahey's face as he put a hand on his son's arm. "Isaac, please. You finally get the opportunity to be alone with a pretty girl and you're passing it up so you can make me have to drive you all the way to school. People are going to start talking."

The smile on Charlie's face tightened until it resembled a grimace more than anything else. She fought hard against the urge to say the word 'ew' and turned back to Isaac. "It's no problem. I mean we're both going to the same place." Isaac still looked vaguely unsure, but nodded in agreement. "Great," Charlie continued, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the Impala. "I'm parked just over there."

After waving goodbye to Sheriff Stilinski and getting yet one more creepy look from Mr. Lahey, she and Isaac picked their way across the cemetery, dodging between the gravestones. Isaac was walking with his shoulders hunched in, like he was trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible. She wouldn't have even been sure that he was following her if it wasn't for the slight scuffing noise of his feet against the ground. As they approached the Impala, she fished the keys out of her messenger bag. "This is me," she called out over her shoulder.

"Whoa."

Charlie glanced up from her position next to the driver's side door to find Isaac staring at the car with wide eyes. "What is it?" she demanded, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion.

"This is your car?" he asked, waving his hand in the general direction of the Impala. "Like this is actually your car?"

"No," she chirped. "I just look around, decide which car is the nicest, and then steal it." Isaac blinked at her stupidly, making her snort loudly. "Yes, Isaac. This is my car."

He let out a light laugh and swallowed heavily before nodding his head awkwardly. "It's, uh, it's really, really cool."

A tiny smiled pulled at the corner of Charlie's lips. "Thanks." She opened the door and was about to slide in the seat when she realized that Isaac was still standing by the car, staring at the door handle with a small degree of reluctance. "You ready to go?" she prompted.

Isaac shook his head, like he was breaking himself out of a trance, and nodded enthusiastically. "Um, yeah. Yeah, sure. Let's go."

The two of them clambered into the car and Charlie took off down the street. Under normal circumstances she would probably be going a good ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit, but for once in her life she chose to drive sensibly. Not out of any concern for safety, but because she wanted to make the car ride as long as possible. The longer Isaac sat in the seat next to her, the more time she would have to get information out of him.

For the first couple of minutes, the car was almost unsettlingly quiet. Charlie refused to be the one to start the conversation. She had learned a long time ago that if you get the other person to start talking to you rather than the other way around, they were a lot more likely to volunteer information. If they began the conversation, they thought they had control of it. She knew the theory worked—she had tried it out plenty of times on plenty of people—but there was one little snag. Isaac wasn't much of a talker. She was on the verge of breaking down and saying something herself when the guy finally opened his mouth.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, making her glance over at him. "For the ride. Thanks."

"No problem at all," she said, shooting him a quick smile.

Isaac blew out a long breath and began fidgeting in his seat. He started drumming his finger nervously and shooting sideways glances in her direction. He was getting uncomfortable with the silence. Her strategy was operating as intended. "So, um, how was the rest of the dance? Did you have fun?"

Charlie's hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, but otherwise kept her emotions in check. "It was definitely eventful," she murmured quietly. "I'm not sure 'fun' is a great way to describe it, though."

As soon as the words left her mouth, all of the color drained out of Isaac's face. "Oh, crap!" he stammered out. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't even think about—"

"It's fine," Charlie said, cutting him off. "Really, it is. It's not like having your friend get mauled by a wild animal and then disappear into the woods is a typical way of ending the evening." She bit her lip and shook her head slightly, reassembling her thoughts. "So you're sure you didn't see anything?" she pressed. "I mean I'm not trying to be pushy. It's just…" Her voice trailed off and Charlie let out a loud sigh. "Look, anything could help. And I mean anything. If Lydia was there then maybe we could, I don't know—track her. Even the tiniest detail."

Isaac shifted in his seat and stared out the window, mostly to avoid looking at her. It was textbook evasiveness. He had definitely seen something, but there was no way he was about to share. "I'm really sorry," he mumbled. "I—I thought I heard something running around, but then I got knocked into that grave. I couldn't see anything from down there. Next thing I know, there's a giant hole in the ground where a grave's supposed to be. I've got no idea what did it."

'What'. He had used the word 'what', not 'who'. Charlie forced herself not to react. Isaac hadn't noticed the slip, so she sure as hell wasn't going to alert him to it. It might not be much, but it was a little bit more information. Charlie just hoped that the 'what' Isaac was referring to was not Lydia. Shaking off the surprise of the new revelation, Charlie eased her way back into casual conversation. Or at least what passed for casual conversation in Beacon Hills. "So did somebody actually steal that woman's liver?"

"Yeah," Isaac said with a nod. "That's all they took. Yanked it right out of her. Not something you want to look at."

Charlie let out a long, low whistle and shook her head in disbelief. "Who wakes up one day and says to themselves, 'You know what I could use today? A liver.'" She looked up at his reflection in the rearview mirror and eyed him curiously. "Except maybe cannibals."

Isaac made a face and shrugged. "Or zombies."

Charlie narrowed her eyes and smirked slightly. "Dr. Frankenstein-like psychopaths."

Taking her lead, Isaac carried on with the list as well. "Cult members."

"Rogue medical students."

"Fraternity pledges."

"Mr. Harris."

This list went on and on, for longer than was probably necessary or advisable. They wasted at least five minutes until Isaac landed on 'black market organ harvesters'.

"They must be pretty shitty organ harvesters," Charlie said through a snort. "I've heard that being dead for a week renders organs nonfunctional. Just as a general rule."

"Well they're operating on the black market," Isaac replied easily. "It's not like they have unions or codes of professional ethics."

Charlie let out a loud snort and rolled her eyes jovially. "The invisible hand of the free market will get rid of them," Charlie shot back. "If people keep dying, I think they might lose credibility. Plus I hear the severance packages in that industry are really crappy."

Isaac chuckled a bit before looking back out the window. He seemed like a pretty sweet guy. Even a little bit funny. At the very least he was willing to dive head first into her ridiculous antics. But he was still so impossibly closed off. Though she supposed that she could understand it. She wasn't exactly an open book herself. Plus they had only actually known each other for all of three days, and of those days they had interacted for just about a half hour. Charlie talked so much and so fast she was used to falling into conversation with people, but from what she could tell of Isaac, he was more closed off—more reluctant to interact with new, unfamiliar people. From the way his shoulders were stooped and his hands were still shoved in his pockets, she got the idea that he didn't want people to look too close. And she had a pretty good idea why.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye, Charlie noticed Isaac staring into the side mirror of the car. He was touching the skin around his bruised eye gingerly, like he was testing it out to see how much pain he would have to put up with. Charlie pressed her lips together in a small 'o' and blew out a long, steadying breath. Lacrosse. He said he had gotten that bruise playing lacrosse. But there was a small hitch with that explanation. The hitch being that it was completely impossible.

Charlie had been to a fair number of lacrosse practices over the past few months. Every time the players set foot on the field, they had their helmets and facemasks on. Every single time. You could say a lot of things about Coach Finstock, but he did care about the safety of his students and his players. One time Greenburg had forgotten to wear his on the field and the coach had ripped into him for a solid fifteen minutes. And that meant Isaac was lying. A big part of Charlie wanted to press him about the topic—to get him to open up so she could do something about it—but that wasn't going to happen. A complete stranger prying into something like that? He would retreat into his shell immediately and without hesitation. But that didn't mean she wasn't going to have a little chat with the sheriff after school.

The rest of the car ride was spent engaging in idle chitchat. Actually Charlie did most of the chatting and received a bunch of responses that ranged from single syllables, to actual full sentences. When she pulled into the parking lot, Isaac looked like he was simultaneously disappointed and relieved. The two of them slid out of the car and Isaac turned to Charlie. "Uh, thanks," he mumbled, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. "For the ride, I mean. Thanks."

"Yeah, sure," Charlie replied, nodding in his direction. "Any time."

A tiny, hesitant smile formed on his face. "So, uh, I guess I'll see you around then?"

"We share classes, Isaac," Charlie said with a smirk. "We'll be seeing each other pretty much every day."

"Yeah," Isaac replied, giving a slightly uncomfortable laugh. "And hey, I'm sorry about Lydia. I, uh, I know you guys are really close, so—"

Charlie wasn't sure how the sentence ended, because her attention was pulled elsewhere. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the backs of two very familiar heads on their way into the front of the school. Scott and Stiles, the two people that she absolutely needed to talk to. She turned back around to find that Isaac was still talking. "Sorry!" she murmured, an apologetic wince covering her face. "I'm really sorry, but I've got to go. There's something I need to do before class starts."

"Y—yeah," Isaac stammered out, nodding along with his words. "Yeah, of course."

Charlie shot him a half-smile and smacked his arm good-naturedly. "See you in chem, okay? Talk later?"

He swallowed heavily and nodded. "Sure. See you later."

Charlie nodded at him and turned away, taking a few steps towards the school, but then paused. "Hey, Isaac?"

He glanced back up at her, a question evident in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"If you ever need to, you know, talk….you know where to find me."

"Okay," he murmured, giving her a funny look. "Thanks?"

She gave a salute, grabbed her messenger bag out of the car and sprinted across the parking lot. As she moved she noticed some people giving her weird looks, though that might have been because she almost ran over several people and came close to colliding with several parked cars in her effort to catch up with Stiles and Scott. She finally reached them just as they beginning to climb the stairs up to the school. Their backs were turned to Charlie, so they didn't see her approach.

"Wait, her liver was missing?" Scott demanded in a tone of disbelief and disgust. "Lydia stole somebody's liver?"

"Yup," Stiles replied. "That's what they said on the police scanner. Grave robbery, missing liver."

Charlie took several large steps forward so that she fell in line with the two of them. "Hey," she said breathlessly.

At her sudden appearance, Stiles twitched violently, practically jumping in the air. "Jesus!"

"Nope," Charlie quipped back. "Just good ol' Charlie. But I do understand the confusion."

Stiles rolled his eyes and let out a loud groan. "You've got to stop doing that!" He narrowed his eyes at her, looking both concerned and guilty. "How long have you been standing there? How much did you hear?"

"You can untwist your panties," Charlie sighed. "I already know about the graveyard and the missing liver."

"Wha—how do you know that already?" Stiles demanded incredulously. "I literally just found out about it a minute and a half ago!"

Grabbing Charlie's arm, Stiles gently pulled her off to the side out of the way of the foot traffic with Scott following after them. The three of them came to a stop a little ways in front of the entrance to the school building and huddled up like they were at the beginning of a football game. Or lacrosse game. They stood slightly off to the side. The students flowed around them as they made their way into the building, and again Charlie found herself on the receiving end of some pretty suspicious looks. She should probably have expected as much. One of her best friends was on a naked walkabout through the woods and the other apparently had a psycho serial killer for an aunt. A certain degree of notoriety was to be expected. Not that she gave a shit.

"Okay," Stiles said as soon as they were out of the way. "So how in the hell did you find out about the liver?"

"I drive by that graveyard every day on the way to school," Charlie murmured so only Stiles and Scott could hear. "What the hell am I supposed to do? _Not_ break into the crime scene? Get your head out of your ass, Stilinski."

Stiles shot her a look that looked to be equal parts proud and frustrated, and Scott just look confused. "So you saw the body," Scott pressed. "The liver was actually missing?"

"Yup," Charlie confirmed, popping the 'p'. "It looked like a game of 'Operation' went horribly, horribly wrong."

"So Lydia ate the liver," Scott muttered, his lip curling slightly in disgust.

"No, I didn't say she ate it—I just said it was missing," Stiles protested. "And even if she did, so what? It's the most nutritious part of the body!"

"Just because it's practical cannibalism doesn't mean it's any less gross," Charlie muttered bitterly.

"I never ate anybody's liver," Scott muttered.

"Well that's fantastic, Scott," Charlie chirped with mock enthusiasm, smacking him hard on the back. "Gold star for you."

"Yeah, right," Stiles muttered sarcastically. "Because when it comes to werewolves you're a real model of self control." Then Stiles's face morphed into a pensive expression, like he was considering his own words. "Actually, wait. Hold on." He smacked Scott in the arm and pointed at him. "You're the test case for this so we should be going over what happened to you."

"What do you mean?" Scott asked, looking at Stiles in confusion.

"I mean what was going through your mind when you were turning," Stiles barreled on, waving his hand in a circle like he was physically trying to spur on the conversation. "What you were drawn to."

A wistful expression crossed Scott's face and Charlie let out a loud groan. "Please, please don't say it."

Scott gave a slightly apologetic shrug. "Allison."

Stiles rolled his eyes while Charlie scrunched up her face and shook her head at him. "Ugh. Boring."

"Okay, nothing else—seriously?" Stiles demanded, his frustration mounting.

"Nothing else mattered," Scott murmured, that slightly concussed look returning to his face. But then for the first time in the history of the saga that was Scott and Allison, he managed to snap out of it without someone hitting him over the head. He looked up at Stiles with a weird sort of hope in his eyes. "That's good, though, right? Because the night Lydia was bit, she was with you."

Stiles's eyes widened slightly and his jaw twitched. He shot a sidelong, saddened, and oddly nervous glance at Charlie before turning back to Scott. "Yeah," Stiles replied in a low, frustrated-sounding tone, "but she was looking for Jackson. If she starts feeling a weird pull or whatever, it'll probably be towards him."

Great. That was just freaking great. Charlie's hand clutched the strap of her messenger bag just a little bit tighter. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground and bit down on the inside of her cheek to make sure she didn't betray that swooping sensation of disappointment. Time to soak it all in. This was the type of feeling she would probably have to get used to. There was no way in hell she was going to start avoiding Stiles because of something so irritating as 'feelings'—he meant way too much to her for that—so she needed to learn how to deal with it, and fast. She could internalize all the angst. She had certainly had enough experience with it. But apparently she was out of practice.

"Hey, are you okay?" Scott asked gently, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Swallowing heavily, Charlie glanced up at Stiles and Scott and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's just…..what if it wasn't Lydia that stole the liver?"

"What do you mean?" Scott asked. "The police tracked her to the graveyard."

"Just because the dogs led the cops to that graveyard doesn't mean it was her," Charlie reasoned. "She could have been gone before that even happened. Or gotten there after it happened. I mean she showed up at Derek's, right? Peter's body was there, wasn't it? And she didn't steal his liver. If she's got some irresistible craving for livers, why wouldn't she take his? Plus she's not exhibiting any of the characteristics typical of turning. Even Derek's stumped."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Stiles practically shouted. He took a step towards her and fixed her under a serious glare. "What do you mean Derek's stumped? How could you possibly know what Derek's—" He didn't finish the sentence, instead shaking his head and waving his hands around more than usual. "You know what? No. Just no. I don't wanna know." He folded his arms across his chest and bit his lip, staring off into the distance and trying really, really hard to look both aloof and pissed. Charlie and Scott exchanged a glance, both of them silently counting down till he exploded again. Which would happen in three….two…one….

"Alright, just tell me!" Stiles spluttered. "Where the hell did you find the guy?"

"I didn't find him," Charlie said with a shrug. "I got home and he was in my room."

Stiles let out a bitter snort and rolled his eyes. "Great. Because that's not creepy at all."

"He was looking for Lydia," Charlie continued. "He wanted to know if she was turning."

"You didn't tell him anything, did you?" Scott hissed.

"Come on, Scott," Charlie groaned. "What do I look like? I gave him the information he'd be able to find out anyway to get him to open up a bit on the subject. He says he's never heard of anything like that before, but it might be possible. So maybe it wasn't her. Maybe she is just wandering around in the woods. I mean weirder shit has happened, right? We know that well enough by now."

"Then who was it?" Scott asked. The expression on his face was sympathetic, but disbelieving.

"I don't know," Charlie murmured. "Another werewolf, the boogeyman, hell maybe the Locke Ness Monster decided to take a vacation." The denials sounded ridiculous, even to her. All evidence pointed in one direction. And she knew that it was probably Lydia—she knew that. But that was the thing about hope, wasn't it? It doesn't matter how miniscule that tiny spark was. If it was something that you really and truly cared about, that spark might as well be a forest fire.

Stiles let out a loud groan and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Okay," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm just gonna blow right past the fact that I think you having these little chats with Derek is a freaking terrible idea and move on to the other bit. Charlie, I want to believe Lydia's fine as much as you do, but is that realistic?"

"Probably not," Charlie acquiesced. "But I'm not quite ready to admit that to myself yet. So can you guys let me cling to that tiny bit of denial for as long as possible?" The expression on Stiles's face softened visibly and he put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he got the chance the bell rang. "And that means that the two of you are officially late for your morning lacrosse practice."

A stream of loud and exceptionally creative curses spilled out of Scott's mouth and he immediately darted away, dodging through the other students. Stiles on the other hand didn't move at all. He just stood there, staring at her with that genuine, caring look of his. Him and his stupid, stupid face that had to go and make her feel feelings. She didn't know how, but under his scrutiny everything that had happened—Peter, Lydia, her nightmares—they all became more real. Like she couldn't ignore them anymore. At that point it felt like her body was at war with itself, that swooping jolt in her stomach contrasting perfectly with the sensation of irritation that was building up in her veins. She bit her lip and let out a long sigh before speaking. "You're missing your practice."

"I'm not first line," he said with a shrug. "They won't care."

The way Stiles was standing there looking at her, Charlie felt herself beginning to fidget. Even after everything she had been through, she was still a bit uncomfortable when it came to genuine human emotion. There was a lot of that in Stiles's expression at the moment. "Would you stop looking at me with that face?" Charlie muttered, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

"What face?" he demanded. "This is my normal face."

"You know what face," Charlie replied, waving a finger in said face. "It's the same face I always complain about. The 'I'm worried about you face'. You don't have to be worried about me. I'll be fine. Go to practice."

She shoved her hands in her pockets and stared at him for about two seconds before doing an about-face and marching through the door. All of her muscles were tense, making her movements strangely robotic, and her pace could only be described as unnecessarily fast. She was pushing her way through the main doors when she heard Stiles let out an exasperated cry. "Seriously?" he shouted after her. "Are you seriously doing this right now?"

Ignoring that frustrated voice, Charlie continued on her was to her locker. It was just all too overwhelming. Usually this worked—the whole 'pretending to be okay' thing. But that's usually because people would believe her and leave her the hell alone. But Stiles kept poking at her. So she did what she usually did under these types of situations. She ran.

Actually it was more like power-walking, but that was beside the point.

Arriving at her locker, Charlie quickly keyed in the code and wrenched it open. She shoved her head inside and took a deep breath, ignoring the smell of the sweaty gym shoes that were sitting at the bottom. She was subscribing to the 'if you can't see them, they can't see you' philosophy of her youth. She was all alone—just her chilling with the textbooks. And she was safe there. But she couldn't stay safe forever.

"Suck it up Oswin."

When Charlie pulled her head out of the locker, she realized that everything around her was quiet—way to quiet for a packed high school hallway. There should be laughing and chatter and the sound of lockers opening and closing, but there was nothing, like the hallway was empty. Slowly, she turned around. The hallway definitely wasn't empty—there were at least a dozen people there and they were all staring at her like she was a carnival exhibit. Word of Lydia and Allison had definitely gotten around, and as the third Musketeer she was garnering no small share of public attention. Folding her arms, Charlie glowered at the lot of them. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The sound of sneakers squeaking against linoleum and heels clacking against the ground filled the hallway as they began to disperse. Cowards. They were like emotional vultures, circling around someone they thought was wounded so as soon as that person went down they could feast on the scandal they left behind. People were the worst. She was contemplating throwing in a 'yeah, you better run!' but that probably wouldn't have made her less conspicuous.

Rolling her eyes and letting out a bitter scoff, Charlie turned back to her locker and began exchanging her textbooks to get ready for class. The footsteps began to fade as the people began to shuffle away. Except, that is, for that one set of footsteps that seemed be getting louder. It was only a few more seconds before Stiles appeared right next to her. "Jesus, how the hell did you get here so fast?" he asked, panting slightly. "Can you teleport?"

Charlie just made a face and shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe I've just got better cardiovascular health than you do." After shoving her English books into her bag, she closed the door to her locker with a resounding slam and turned back to face Stiles, looking at him pointedly. "You know what could change that? Playing lacrosse. Go to your practice. I'm okay. Really."

At that point Stiles almost seemed to get…..angry. He let out a loud groan and slammed his head into the cold metal of the locker next to hers. Something he probably immediately regretted given the fact that he started rubbing at his forehead while his face morphed into a pained wince. "You're okay!" he practically shouted, his exasperation with her cageyness finally getting the better of him. "Fine. Great. Perfect. You're okay. But here's the thing, Charlie. I'm gonna worry about you whether or not you're okay. You can be the epitome of okay, and I'm still gonna worry. That's what friends do. They worry about each other, whether or not they're okay! That's kinda how the whole thing works!"

The words came out insanely quickly—like in the same breath—so by the end of his rather loud rant, Stiles was left breathless. And Charlie…surprised was a gentle way of describing what she was. Stiles had just yelled at her. In the middle of the hallway. Maybe it was hearing his own words echoing in the hallway, but his face crumpled. "Oh, man, I'm sorry. I didn't—that was—I was just—"

"Right," Charlie finished for him, cutting off the apology. "You're right."

Stiles blinked in surprise. He opened his mouth to say something, but then snapped it shut again, repeating that process a few times before finally speaking. "What?"

"You're right," Charlie said, enunciating each of the words carefully.

"I am?" he asked stupidly.

Charlie winced theatrically and shrugged. "I understand why you'd find the idea of you being right so confusing, but you are." Breaking eye contact, she rocked back on her feet and stared at the floor. "I mean, I worry about you too."

"You do?" he asked, an unexpected element of disbelief in his voice.

"Um, yeah," Charlie replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

A tiny smile appeared on his face, making his yes crinkle at the corners. "Like a lot, or…" He let the words trail off and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Yes," she muttered, rolling her eyes a bit. "More than I admit to out loud. And probably more than I need to."

That small smile split into a wide grin. "Well I guess that makes you a bit of a hypocrite, doesn't it?"

Charlie let out a scoff and absently tugged at the end of the braid. "Not really," she shot back. "You do so much stupid crap that it's pretty much impossible not to worry about you."

"Hey!" he said, snapping his fingers and pointing at her. "I—I do not have the monopoly on stupid crap. There's plenty of stupid crap going on in this—" he waved his hands around in the space between them "—this general vicinity. You do plenty of stupid crap too. And I mean really stupid. Epically stupid."

"I thought you were trying to make me feel better."

"Shut up," Stiles said, the smile never leaving his face. He looked down the hallway, like there was somewhere he needed to go, before turning back to face her fully. "Can we get the hug over with now? I'm, like, super-late for lacrosse practice."

Narrowing her eyes at him, Charlie pushed herself up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck while his found their way around her middle. His shirt was rough and soft at the same time, like it had been washed a ton of times, and he smelled kind of like fabric softener and curly fries. She felt that now frustratingly familiar jolt in her stomach at their proximity. After a few short seconds, she pulled back and smacked him in the chest. "There. Now get to practice before Finstock has a seizure or something. I mean how is Beacon Hills going to get to the state championships if the players keep blowing off practice?"

"You suck."

"You suck more."

With a parting wave, Stiles sprinted down the hallway towards the locker room, his lacrosse stick almost hitting a few people in the face as he went. Letting out a low whine, Charlie turned back to face the lockers. It was her turn to slam her forehead against the metal. And, like Stiles, she immediately regretted it. She was doomed. That was the long and short of it—she was completely doomed. Why did he have to be so freaking sincere and considerate? Was this what having a crush was like? She'd never really had one before, so she hand nothing to compare it to. But then again it had only been going on for like three days. She just needed to learn how to deal with it was all. Well with that and all the other crap going on.

If Charlie was being honest, she might as well have not gone to school at all that day. Her mind was somewhere else the whole time, theorizing. The teachers lecturing at her sounded more like adults in those Peanuts cartoon movies—where they don't actually use words and their voices came out more as static than anything else. And she definitely, definitely failed that pop quiz in chemistry. Not that Charlie wasn't taking any notes. She was taking tons of notes. It just so happened that those notes had absolutely nothing to English, history, French, chemistry, or anything else remotely academic. Nope. She was taking notes on Lydia.

Every minute detail to do with Lydia was hashed and rehashed in her brain. She would close her eyes and visualize the scenes—the hospital bathroom, the Hale house, the graveyard—she recreated each of them in her brain. Or at least she tried to. Every time she focused too hard on the Hale house, she would get those flashes again and be left with a migraine. And one or two people staring at her like she had lost her mind. Still, though, she managed to sketch herself out a timeline of events, looking for some way to definitively prove that Lydia absolutely could not have been the person to take that liver. She didn't.

Most of the day passed with Charlie in a bubble of her own creation. Sure she heard the whispers and felt the eyes on her, but she ignored them. It was fairly easy, actually. Despite the whispers, people seemed to be avoiding her like they were a little bit afraid. But then again she had kneed Jackson in the groin in the middle of a crowded hallway a couple of weeks ago. Maybe they were a little bit scared. She was actually pretty alright with the fact that the universe was avoiding her. She was happy to be avoided.

At the end of the day she found herself sitting in her normal seat in her seventh period economics class doodling in her notebook. The time passed quickly, so much so that the end of day bell ringing was a surprise. And a relief. The sound of chair legs scraping against the ground filled the room as everybody readied themselves to go. Charlie snapped her book shut and shoved them in her messenger bag, making a move to get up with everybody else, but before she could a loud, shrill noise penetrated the air making her wince. She looked up to see Coach Finstock, hands on his hips and whistle hanging out of mouth, blocking the exit.

"Did I say you could go yet?" he exclaimed. "All of you sit." Everybody froze in place, but nobody made a move to sit. Coach Finstock blinked at them, actually looking a little offended. He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at them. "Did you hear me—I said sit!"

The students shuffled back to there seats and Finstock nodded to himself in satisfaction. He paced back in forth in front of his desk, probably to develop some sort of level of intimidation, before talking. "Alright. Listen up you miscreants. The police are asking for help on a missing child advisory. As I'm sure you all already know because of the complete lack of verbal filter there seems to be at this school, there's a sick girl wandering around totally naked. Reports say it's going to get below forty degrees tonight. Now I realize that most of you will probably be locked in your rooms making Facebook status updates and twittering at each other and doing God knows what else on the internet, so I'm providing some incentive for you to get off your asses and do something about it." He pointed almost angrily at a piece of paper that was taped up next to the door. "That's the signup sheet. Anybody who finds the girl gets an automatic A in my class." He stopped pacing and stared at them all seriously. When nobody moved, he rolled his eyes and groaned. "You can go now."

As soon as he spoke the words, the rest of the students jumped back up from their desks. Some of them sprinted right through the door and into the hallway, but at least half of them formed a traffic jam around the signup sheet, holding pens and clamoring for their chance to sign. Charlie couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of disgust build up inside her. They were willing to pretend to care, but only as long as they could get something for it. Vultures. She let out a bitter, humorless snort and slowly got to her feet. She was just about to push through the mosh pit of assholes when somebody's voice stopped her.

"Hey! Oswin!" Charlie glanced over her shoulder to see none other than Coach Finstock waving her over. "Hang back a bit."

Charlie slowly backed away from the door and approached him, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. One by one, the other students filed out, leaving her and Coach Finstock alone in the classroom. He sat down behind his desk and waved at her to approach. Charlie clutched onto the strap of her messenger bag and walked towards him with hesitation. "Look, Coach," she said as she came to a stop in front of him, "if this is about—"

"Pull up a chair," he ordered, gesturing at the row of desks.

Charlie's eyebrows pulled together in confusion, but she did as she was told. Grabbing a free chair, she pulled it up so she was situated on the other side of the desk and sat down. "Look," she muttered evasively, "if this is because I wasn't paying attention in class today, I'm really sorry. It's just that Lydia is my best friend and she's—"

But Coach Finstock cut off her rambling apology/excuse, leaning forwards on his desk and fixing her with a weirdly serious yet oddly comical stare. "So what's the deal with your aunt? Melody's your aunt right? Blonde hair, brown eyes, chaperoned the winter formal?"

What Charlie was expecting from this conversation, it sure as hell hadn't been that. She opened her mouth to say something, but the only noise that came out was a croaky sounding squeak. She cleared her throat and blinked a few times to make absolutely certain she wasn't hallucinating again. Nope. Not at all. "Wha—what do you mean 'what's her deal'?"

The coach made a weird face at her, like she was the one not making any sense. "I thought you kids were supposed to be down with the lingo," he said, waving his hands around. "What's her deal? Is she single? What?"

This was her nightmare. She had thought it was that crazy dream where Peter tried to kill her, but no. This moment, right here and now, this was her truest nightmare. Charlie gaped at Coach Finstock, completely frozen. It was like her brain was buffering. All she could see was that ridiculous spinning wheel that appeared when the internet was being insanely slow. She didn't know why, but her mouth started moving without her brain thinking.

"Um, yeah. She's single."

A toothy grin formed on Coach Finstock's face and he began nodding to himself. "Nice." He seemed to fall into some sort of trance, but then snapped out of it just as quickly. "So what does she like?"

"What does she like?" Charlie asked stupidly.

"Yeah," Finstock pressed. "You know, interests, hobbies, stuff like that. Stuff that we might have in common. Shared interests."

Slowly, Charlie's brain caught up with the events as they were occurring. She stared at Coach Finstock in disbelief. "Are you—are you asking me how you can get my aunt to go out with you? Is that actually happening right now?"

"What are her feelings on Monster Trucks?" he mused.

The sound of the clock ticking on the wall seemed very, very loud as she sat there in stunned silence. "My best friend is wandering around in the woods in danger of going into hypothermia."

The statement hung in the air, and the level of awkward in the room was increased exponentially. Finstock jerked his head to the side, like he was reconsidering his recent words, and made a face at her. "You should—you should probably go."

Charlie swallowed heavily and nodded. "Yeah. I—I'm gonna go. Over there. Far, far away from here." She stood up suddenly, knocking over the chair she was sitting in. She didn't bother to pick it up before practically sprinting out of the room and down the hallway. All she knew was that she had to get away from that room as quickly as possible. But not quickly enough to hear Finstock shout one more thing after her.

"So was that a 'no' on the Monster Trucks, then?"

Charlie cringed internally and picked up her pace even more, pretending not to have heard. Nope. No. She wasn't even going to start trying to think about that. There was no more room in her brain. If there was one more thing to add to the giant pile of crap that was her life, she would probably just join Lydia instead of just trying to find her.

She needed to get out of that building. She needed to get out of that high school. With the day she had just had, it kind of felt toxic. After what felt like an eternity she finally got to her locker, even before some of the other students in her class that hadn't gotten held back for the most awkward human interaction of all time. She wrenched the locker door and began frantically shoving books in her bag without bothering to look and see which ones. She was just about to slam the door shut and go on her merry way, but before she could she heard something—something she despised. That something being the voice of Meredith Edwards, the biggest gossip in school, whose locker was two over from hers.

"No, so it's totally official," the girl said as she approached her locker. Charlie froze, keeping her face hidden behind the open door to her locker as the girl continued. "Like there's been a police report and everything. The woman is an actual, real-life serial killer! That fire all those years ago? That was her. Plus you remember that bus driver we saw out there? He was ripped to shreds! She did that too."

"Really?" the other girl asked. Charlie could almost see that look of doe-eyed disbelief on the other girl's face. The Disney princess 'I'm so shocked by unpleasantness' face. It made her want to puke, right there in her locker.

"Yeah!" Meredith barreled on, even sounding excited about it. "She was a total psycho!"

"And that was really Allison's aunt?" the other girl demanded. "How is that possible? I mean, she always seemed so nice?"

"Yeah?" Meredith said with a snort. "You know who else was super nice and charming? Ted Bundy."

"Who's Ted Bundy?"

"Um, only one of the most famous serial killers ever," Meredith scoffed. "You know mental illness runs in the family. The crazy doesn't fall far from the tree."

At that, the social bubble Charlie had built up for herself over the course of the say popped. Reaching up, she slammed the door to her locker shut impossibly loudly and leaned against the metal, folding her arms across her and staring at the two girls. Catching sight of her, Meredith froze for an instant before readopting her natural stance. "H—hey, Charlie," she said, trying to seem natural. "How's it going? Your hair looks great today."

"Are we really going to be doing this?" Charlie said, waving a finger at the girl. "Really?"

Meredith sighed and shrugged casually. "I'm sorry. I know Allison's your friend and everything, but it's the truth. You can't get angry at me for telling the truth."

A laugh burst forth from Charlie's throat. It was a bit manic and definitely passive-aggressive. "Oh, I'm not angry at you, Meredith," Charlie said. Her voice was sickly sweet, but came out more threatening than anything else. "I'm definitely not angry with you. Because I understand why you do what you do—all the gossiping and everything. Actually, I pity you more than anything else."

Meredith's spine straightened. Her lip curled into a sneer and she abandoned all pretext of kindness. Basically she was finally being honest. "Really? You pity me? The emotionally stunted, borderline violent girl—yeah, I know about you kneeing Jackson in the crotch—the girl with the disastrous friends with crazy, murdering aunts—that girl pities me?"

Charlie just smiled sweetly and shrugged her shoulders, mimicking the girl's way of moving. "Yup," she said, popping the 'p'. "Because this—" she waved her hand around between the two of them "—this is all that you are. Your sheer existence is completely dependent on other people's drama. And I'll just bet that you wish more than anything that you were the person everybody was talking about. Even if it was your aunt that killed a ton of people. Because that would mean that you—like as a person—it would mean that you were the tiniest bit interesting. As it is now, you're….you're a shallow pool of water. You reflect everything but there's nothing underneath the surface."

"Are you calling me shallow?" Meredith demanded. She tried to fix Charlie with what was probably her version of the 'death glare', but the seriousness was kind of undercut when her right eye started twitching.

"Yeah, sure," Charlie said waving her hand absently. "You kinda butchered my metaphor, but whatever." Narrowing her eyes into a dangerous expression, Charlie took a small step towards Meredith. She almost busted out laughing when the girl took a scared step back. "I might hate this game, but that doesn't mean I can't play it. Lay off Allison and Lydia, or you will see _exactly_ what I'm capable of."

"Come on," Meredith sneered to her friend, never taking her eyes off Charlie. "Let's go somewhere else. Where there's less crazy." Meredith flipped her long, blonde hair over her shoulder in a sad imitation of Lydia and walked past Charlie down the hallway. Letting out a loud snort, Charlie spun on her heel and watched them go.

"Good talk!" Charlie called out after them as they strutted down the hallway. "I'll see you later!"

The two girls picked up their pace a little bit, making Charlie chuckle to herself. But then her eyes were drawn slightly to the left and the laughter died in her throat. Allison was standing there in the middle of the hallway, clutching her books to her chest and staring at Charlie with wide eyes. She kind of looked like a deer in headlights, frozen there. She had heard the whole thing.

The two girls stood there at opposite ends of the hall, staring at each other. It was almost like they were having a silent conversation from twenty feet away from each other. After a few moments, Allison pressed her lips together into a thin line and nodded in Charlie's direction before turning and walking down the hall. It wasn't much of a détente, but it was a start. Allison needed someone to be there for her. Charlie would be there, whether or not Allison _saw_ her there.

And that meant Charlie was going to a funeral.

**Alright, so there it is! Hopefully sleep deprivation won't make it seem garbled and everything. My job had be starting work this week at 5:30am, meaning I get up at 4:30am, so…..yeah…..**

**PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please. Reviews are my bread and butter!**

**Oh, and some of you had been asking when Stiles and Charlie were getting together. I'm obviously not going to tell you when it's happening, but it won't be too insanely much longer in terms of episode count. In terms of how much I write…..well I do have a tendency of getting carried away so I can't quite say.**

**SOUNDTRACK UPDATE:**

**Charlie wakes up and forces herself to get ready.**

**-~-~-~Cops - On and On  
**

******Charlie goes to her locker and deals with the gossiping and Stiles catches up with her to make sure she's okay.**

******-~-~-~Must I Wait - Yumi And The Weather**

******Charlie eviscerates Meredith (the gossip), sees that Allison saw her, and resolves to go to Kate's funeral.**

******-~-~-~The Sailor - Lost Lander**


	4. A & Ω

**Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.**

**A huge thank you to BrightEyes20, winchesterxgirl, Charlie-Charlie-Charlie, YellowSubmarine93, emmy72, ThePreviews, Roxu, she.s. .one, easythrowaway, Daenerys86, CourtneyxWolf725, katiesgotagun, DarlingPeterPan, Cbftologin, Tania, imrid-amrad-ursul, Female whovian, turtlethewriter, Sadedfire, TWsos12345, TheMMMG, Everlastingabyss, nessafly, nixevee, Valkyrie101, Vcarp1993, Montanasmith5897, RedRoses5, vickylopez2994, Gee Brittany, SimplyKelly, chibisemo, X23 Maximoff, SK-Scantenato, Undeniable Weirdness, ssstilinski, Guest, Bookiee, Emmalee Adams, ofmiceandheidi, Guest, Hanna, Shes-The-Proto-Type, WhatsGoingOn, run-robin-run, Bethany, Just-another-teenage-dirtbag, We're All M-M-Mad Here, L.L. Pottle, Micaela M, and AspiredWriterr for reviewing! I love you guys all so much! And, as usual, thank you to the wonderful BrittWitt16!  
**

**If you want to see the outfits Charlie wears, check out my polyvore account. There is a link on my profile.**

**Oh, and I started a Spotify account for my playlists! I'm not quite up to date with all the chapters yet, but if you want to listen to what I have so far check out the account! My username is...you guessed it...it-belongs-in-a-museum.  
**

Chapter 4 – A & Ω

Death was weird. Like as a concept, it was strange to think about. The idea that a person—who they were, their personality from their weird habits to their sense of humor—could blink out of existence because of something as tiny and inconsequential as a bullet or a blood clot. All of those indefinable tiny little things that added up to what some people might call the 'soul' destroyed in an instant. And then what was left? A few photographs and a box of random stuff that ended up in the back of a closet because the people that loved that person couldn't quite bring themselves to look at it yet. That was it. A life turned into some cardboard boxes and memories.

But to Charlie there was something that even stranger and made less sense than death, and that was how people reacted to it. Some of them started eating anything and everything in sight, to the point that you had to start worrying whether or not the sheets and sofa cushions would still be there in the morning. Others would start crying and never, ever stop like a fire hydrant whose top was busted off. Then there were the ones like her who didn't shed a tear—the ones like her who just shut down so they wouldn't have to feel that pain. And a million types of others.

The way Charlie saw it, death was kind of like throwing a brick into a perfectly still lake. The event itself was that one giant splash—loud and dramatic. The fallout, though, it was much more subtle. The quiet ripples radiating out from the center until the entire lake has been disturbed, that was the aftermath—that was how death touched everybody and everything around it.

Charlie sat on her bed, her hands grabbing hold of that rumpled, deep purple comforter, and stared out in front of her at the dress hanging from her closet door. It was a nice dress—beautiful even. It was a sleeveless, simple frock with a lace overlay and ribbon around the waist. It wasn't something that she would have necessarily picked out for herself—a little too 'sweet' for her tastes—but Mel had chosen it and that meant it suited her well. And it did fit the most important criteria. It was black.

She never thought she would actually wear that dress a second time. As pretty as it was, as soon as she had taken it off, she had more or less resolved to stick it in the back of her closet and let it rot. But life had been a lot simpler when she had made that decision. A lot had happened and circumstances had changed.

Taking one last long, steadying breath, Charlie pushed herself up from the bed and strode over to the closet and pulled the dress from the hanger. She tossed it carelessly on the bed before stripping off her school clothes and doing a quick change. She slipped on the dress and yanked up the zipper—a process that required quite a few contortions—before finding a pair of grey tights and the lowest heeled black boots in her closet. Stepping back, she brushed the wrinkles out of her dress and surveyed her refection in the mirror. The girl staring back looked perfectly appropriate for a funeral. What was going on in her head, though, was a different story.

Charlie didn't grieve for Kate. Maybe a better person would, but then again she never pretended that she was a 'good' person. It would have been way to big an exercise in self-delusion. She almost wished she could grieve Kate's death or feel some sort of remorse. There was an element of good in everyone, after all. Even in the most twisted of people, there was always that little spark that could lead to redemption. But she couldn't forgive Kate for her actions any more than she could forgive Peter for his. Now that she thought of it, the two of them were soul mates in the most unhealthy way possible. They shared the same wit and sarcasm, the same love of the hunt, and they shared that same burning, all-consuming hatred. If that hatred hadn't been for each other, they would have been kind of perfect together.

But as indifferent as Charlie was to Kate herself, she couldn't help but feel some regret. Allison had lost someone that she had cared about deeply. Yes, that person happened to be a psychotic mass murderer, but that didn't change anything. Allison didn't love that person. She loved the person she thought Kate was. And as far as Charlie was concerned, that meant that Allison had lost her aunt twice in the space of ten minutes. Charlie couldn't pretend to know exactly what Allison was going through, but she knew better than most.

Losing a loved one was kind of like losing a limb. It was like there was a part of you that you always expected to be there and you almost don't _notice_ how much they mean to you because you think they'll always be there. It's only when they're actually, properly gone that you realize just how important they were in the first place. Hell, you could even go through your own emotional version of phantom limb syndrome. There were some mornings after her dad had….There were some mornings when she woke up absolutely certain he would be sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and hiding the comics in his copy of the New York Times so he could appear all cultured. Every time all she found was an empty chair, but there was still that echo in her mind.

"Okay," Charlie whispered at her reflection like she was scolding herself. "Time to be appropriate. The funeral is going to be total chaos. Don't kick the bees' nest this time. Be there, stay on the sidelines. Don't make things worse than they probably already are."

After grabbing one of her seemingly endless supply of leather jackets, she ran out the door and climbed back in her car. Even as she turned the key in the ignition, a tiny voice in the back of her head was telling her that this was a terrible idea. Allison didn't know she would be there, the Argents already didn't like her, the press would be crawling all over the place—there were a whole lot of reasons for Charlie to stay the hell away from that graveyard. But despite all of those very good reasons not to go, she had two very compelling ones that put her in that car.

One: to be there if Allison needed her.

Two: to find out who the _others_ Allison had talked about were.

When Charlie arrived at the graveyard, she was sure to pull up the car on the side opposite the main entrance. The Argents would probably throw a fit if she had just popped up uninvited, and even though there had been a little bit of a thaw between her and Allison, she still wasn't sure if she was entirely welcome. She ended up pulling her car off the road in a manner that couldn't quite be described as legal, driving over grass and dirt until she parked right next to that black, wrought iron fence. And as she climbed out of the car, she was almost glad that Allison wasn't speaking to her. Because that meant that she got to miss out on the three-ring circus that was going on across the rows of headstones.

Chaos wasn't an adequate enough word to describe what was going on the other side of the cemetery. From what she could tell, it was the makings of a blood bath. Photographers and reporters had descended on the scene like a cloud of locusts. Except they were dormant for now. The Argents hadn't gotten there yet. It was just a matter of time until that car pulled up and the locusts started swarming. There were so many, Charlie could make out a couple of khaki uniforms milling around amongst them, making sure everybody was kept in line. All in all, it was utterly ridiculous. Since when did Beacon Hills have so many reporters anyway? There was only one freaking local paper. How many photographers did they need? It was seriously over the top.

Charlie let out a long breath and pushed the flyaway hairs out of her face before perching herself on the hood of the car. Now came the waiting. She rested her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands, staring out across the cemetery. Its appearance had changed slightly since earlier that morning. For one thing, that huge excavator had disappeared. And then there was that crudely ripped-apart grave. It had disappeared. The gaping hole had been filled in, and the only way she could have known there was one in the first place was that small patch of grass that didn't quite match the rest.

Kate's grave itself looked oddly dignified. It was still, quiet, and totally separate from the chaos brewing a few yards away. The coffin was sleek and silver with black trimmings—stylish with a bit of edge, just like Kate—and stood a few feet away from that clean, carefully constructed hole that had been dug for it. Two lines of chairs covered in a soft green fabric looked over the scene. Charlie felt a small pang of guilt when she realized that there was no way they would all be filled. And whatever dignity the ceremony might have had, it was lost the moment that red SUV pulled into the parking lot. Charlie sucked in a quick breath. Shit was about to hit the fan in three….two….one….

The moment Mr. Argent stepped out the car, the media, which until that moment had remained dormant, sprang to life. Flashing lights, loud shouts, demands for statements—the press practically attacked the Argents using microphones and cameras as their weapons. Allison and her parents huddled together, forming some rudimentary phalanx formation as they forcibly pushed through the sea of reporters. Charlie was too far away to make out Allison's face, but she imagined it held some combination of fear, anxiety, and grief.

Why the hell had she come here? Why did she sign herself up to watch this? It was brutal. It was callous. It was pretty much everything wrong with humanity in general rolled up into one snapshot of a moment. Obsession with the sensational regardless of who it hurts. Not that Charlie could claim some sense of superiority over them. Her eyes were glued to the scene even though she was far away.

The police had to hold the reporters back, keeping them behind the flimsy barricades they had set up in an attempt to keep them away. Finally the Argents managed to push their way through the crowd and into the clear cemetery beyond. They were safe. That is until some kid she vaguely recognized from class broke the unspoken rule and ducked under the barricades, snapping candid photos of Allison. Charlie pushed herself off the car slightly, wondering if she should shout some kind of warning, but before she got the chance, a hush fell over the crowd.

The teeming reporters parted, seemingly almost on instinct, leaving an open path for three men. Two of them were tall, at least six feet, well muscled, with suits and sunglasses. They looked more like a security detail than anything else. But regardless of their height or size, the two glorified bouncers weren't the ones that drew the attention. It was the man in the center of the trio who drew her attention. It wasn't that there was anything particularly striking about his appearance itself—he was shorter then the others, probably in his mid- to late-seventies, thin, balding with shock-white hair. Taking any of the characteristics on their own, it wouldn't have added up to anything all that impressive, but the man she found herself looking at was more than the sum of his parts. He carried himself with a quiet power—a gravitas—that demanded authority without him even having to say a word.

Charlie watched with bated breath as the man strode towards the photographer who had snuck under the barrier. The man stood silently at the boy's shoulder for a few moments while he continued to snap photos, completely unaware that there was anybody watching him. Then, suddenly, he reached down and grabbed hold of the camera, said something to the guy, and snapped the memory card and half. And with that, Charlie came to one definite conclusion. The guy was kind of a badass, and definitely an enigma. For now.

"Hey!"

The sudden voice right behind her made Charlie jump about two feet in the air and almost careen off the hood of the car. "Son of a bitch!" She placed a hand over her heart and gulped down big breaths, trying to get it force her heartbeat down to a regular pace. When it was finally back to normal, she glared at the offending individual. "What the hell, Stiles!" she shouted, smacking him hard in the shoulder. "Why did you have to go and sneak up on me like that?"

Stiles grabbed at his shoulder where she had hit him and mimed screaming in pain. "Wha—how many times to I have to tell you?!" he spluttered. "That's too hard! I bruise easily!"

"Please," Charlie shot back with a roll of her eyes. "That was like 10% power. At most like 20%."

"_That_ was 10%?" he demanded skeptically raising his eyebrows at her. "Jesus! Am I friends with a she-Hulk?"

Charlie folded her arms across her chest and squared her shoulders in his direction. "Did I just put on a frilly dress and frigging high-heeled shoes only to be called a she-Hulk?"

Stiles blinked and took a small step back, taking in her full appearance for what was probably the first time. His eyebrows pulled together, almost in confusion as he looked at her. He let out a funny sort of laugh and scratched absently at his neck before speaking. "Why, uh, why are you dressed like that?"

Charlie frowned and wrapped her arms even tighter around her waist. This was not what she was used to wearing. It was not what she felt comfortable wearing. For some reason the sweet femininity of it made her feel vulnerable—open. "It's a funeral," she muttered self-consciously. "Isn't this the kind of stuff you wear at a funeral? You know, fancy, girly stuff. Socially acceptable stuff." She took a moment to observe his appearance. He was dressed exactly as he had been during the school day—jeans, a flannel over-shirt, and a T-shirt that featured the silhouette of a stripper with the caption 'I Support Single Moms'. She let out a snort and shook her head. "You know what?" she replied, nodding at his shirt. "I totally should have gone the casual, misogynistic route. Much more befitting of the occasion."

Stiles looked down at his T-shirt and then back up at her. "Wha—why do you have to go getting all defensive?" Charlie let out a loud huff and began pulling self-consciously at the hem of the dress. Stiles seemed to sense her discomfort though, because he sent a halting smile in her direction. "Y—you look nice, though," he stammered out, gesturing up and down her body. "I mean really nice. Actually, it's probably a good thing you're not down there 'cause then you'd be upstaging the funeral and that's…well, that's just really bad etiquette, isn't it?"

Charlie bit her lip and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. "Thanks," she muttered almost reluctantly.

"So why're you up here, then?" he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the funeral.

"I don't know," she murmured, staring off into the distance. "I don't think I'd be all that welcome down there. The Argents pretty much hated me before they knew I was in on all this werewolf stuff. And Allison's still mad at me. Or at least I think she is. I just figured…." Her voice trailed off and she jerked her head to the side noncommittal way.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, I get it." He waved a hand between her and the action before letting it drop back to his side. "You get to be there without being _there_."

Sighing heavily, Charlie turned back to the scene in front of her. It looked like the older man was speaking with Mr. Argent about something while Allison sat in one of the chairs, staring at the casket. Again, Charlie was too far away to make any of it out definitively. It was completely infuriating, really, how she was so close to the action and not being able to make sense of it. If there was one thing Charlie hated, it was not knowing what was going on.

"Jesus, this sucks," she muttered, kicking at the overgrown grass scratching at her ankles. "This thing with Allison on top of everything with Lydia…..It's stressing me out." She turned back to Stiles, frowning slightly and pulling nervously at the end of her braid. "I feel like I'm getting the flu. Is that—is that something that can actually happen? Can you catch like an annoying emotional flu that makes you want to do nothing but lie in the couch and eat but Doritos and ice cream? Is there like an antibiotic I can take to get rid of it? Or an exorcism or something?"

Stiles just stared at her, his jaw hanging open a bit. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure what you're describing is basic human emotion. There's not exactly a pill for that. Well, I mean, there is, but it isn't the type you're talking about."

"Oh, ha ha ha," Charlie muttered with a roll of her eyes. She let out a loud grown and scrunched up her face into a pained expression. "I've just—I've never been in a fight like this before, you know?"

"Really?" Stiles demanded skeptically. "You've never been in a fight before? You? Defensive, sarcastic, punch-y—"

"Okay," Charlie said, holding a hand up to make him stop talking. "You can stop describing me now. I think we all got the picture."

"You know what I mean," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "How can you have never been in a fight before?"

"Maybe I'm just universally popular and well-liked!" Charlie replied, throwing her hands in the air. Stiles raised his eyebrows at her, making her let out a loud groan. "Okay, fine," she muttered. "Look, I've never really had close friends before, alright? If I got into a big fight with one of them I really didn't care. You're not speaking to me? Whatever, I'm moving in like two months and I'll never, ever see you again. But now….I'm stuck with you guys until college. It's the first time I've actually been able to, you know, care about people. Over the long term."

Charlie hopped back up on the hood of the car and buried her face in her hands, rubbing her forehead to stave off the headache that was threatening to form. After a few moments she felt the car sink a bit lower as someone else sat down on the hood. An arm wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her closer to the warm body next to her. She kept her head down for a moment, waiting for that slight flush to fade away before looking up at Stiles. "You and Scott have been friends since your sandbox days right?" she asked. "You must have gotten in plenty of fights. How do you deal with it?"

Stiles blew out a long breath and tightened his hold on her shoulder a little. "I don't know," he shrugged. "I've had plenty of stuff to be pissed at Scott about. Especially these days. But every time it just sort of….went away. After a while being mad and not talking just ended up being worse than whatever happened in the first place."

Charlie bit down on the inside of her cheek and nodded in understanding. "Do you think that's going to be what happens with me and Allison?" she asked quietly, picking at her nails. She glanced up at Stiles under her eyelashes, only to find him nodding confidently. "Yeah," he replied. "That's exactly what's going to happen."

"Really," she said with a light snort. "How exactly are you so sure?"

Stiles just shrugged. "Because there's no way she's not going to end up missing you like crazy."

An involuntary smile formed on Charlie's face and she elbowed him in the side. "Suck-up."

Stiles rolled his eyes good-naturedly and elbowed her back. "Do you want to get closer," he said, like he was reading her mind. "Scott's got a hiding spot behind one of these monument things."

Charlie glanced between him and the funeral a few times before nodding in agreement. "Yeah. Yeah, sure."

Stiles hopped off the car and moved to stand in front of her, holding out a hand. She hesitated, just for a second, before taking it and allowing herself to be hauled off the car. Her heels sunk into the loose dirt, making her stumble slightly as she trailed after Stiles. He followed the wrought iron fence for a while until apparently getting to the right point. Planting one foot on the top of the metal, he tried to easily propel himself over the barrier. Unfortunately that was met with both a figurative and literal snag when his pants got stuck on one of the decorative spires. He fell forwards, almost doing a back flip as he collapsed to the ground. He popped up just as easily and grinned, pretending nothing had happened at all. Charlie let out an indelicate laugh, which she tried to turn into a cough, before starting a slow clap. "Great form," she said, smirking at him. "The dismount was a little sticky, so I'll give it an eight out of ten."

"Ugh, would you just shut the hell up and get over here?"

Cutting off any other of her own snarky remarks, Charlie stepped forwards and put her hand on the metal railing ready to haul herself over as well. At that moment, she realized exactly why she never wore relatively tight-fitting dresses and high heels. It made it absolutely impossible to actually _do_ anything. Frowning to herself, she tried for a second time brace her hands on the fence before Stiles interrupted her.

"Come on," he said, holding out a hand for the second time in the space of fifteen minutes. Feeling a bit like a porcelain doll, Charlie locked down her pride and took his hand again. It took a bit of maneuvering to plant her foot on the rail without flashing her underwear to the world. As soon as she managed to push herself up, the heels made her wobble, threatening to fall backwards. "Whoa, there," Stiles murmured. He grabbed hold of her waist, steadying her as she moved. Charlie's eyes snapped to his, but as soon as they made eye contact she looked away. Between his hand holding hers and the other one on her waist, Charlie managed to make it over the fence without any spectacle. When she hit the ground again, her heels made her stumble again, and Stiles's hands gripped tighter, steadying her. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yup," she said, nodding to herself.

It took a few moments for the both of them to realize that his hand was still on her waist, but when he did, he jerked it back quickly. "Scott's just, uh, he's over here," he mumbled out. Still holding onto Charlie's hand, he dragged her after him across the graveyard. The both of them stayed low to the ground to avoid detection and Charlie struggled to keep up the pace. Heels were definitely a conspiracy. She was sure of that by now. The two of them dodged between headstones until she finally saw Scott peeking at the funeral from around a stone angel. They scurried towards him before skidding to a halt near him on their hands and knees. Hearing their approach, Scott glanced at them over his shoulder. "Hey," he said, looking at Stiles. But when he saw Charlie in tow, he did a bit of a double take. "Oh, hey, Charlie," he murmured, glancing up and down her form. "You look….formal. What are you doing here?"

"Same thing as you, probably," she muttered back. "How's Allison?"

Scott's surprised expression morphed into a concerned one. He let out a sigh and turned to look back in front of him. "Not great," he whispered back. "School today definitely didn't help."

"Yeah," Charlie replied, her voice coming out as a bitter laugh. "People suck."

"You can say that again."

Charlie glanced back in the direction of the casket. She definitely had a better view of what was going on than she did from the other side of the fence. The old man had finished speaking with Mr. Argent and was….hugging him? Something about that seemed so fundamentally wrong. And not he was kissing Mrs. Argent on the cheek? Even more wrong. Super wrong. Epically wrong. And now he was coming to a stop in front of Allison. She seemed kind of hesitant when he came up to her, like she wasn't quite sure who he was.

"Who the hell is that?" Stiles asked, voicing her thoughts and nodding in the guy's direction.

"Who?" Scott mumbled back.

"The one who looks like the old dude from Battlestar Galactica," Charlie elaborated. "And who's freakishly chummy with the parents."

Almost as if he had heard them, the man's head swung around to look in their direction. All three of them swore under their breath and ducked behind the stone angel to avoid detection. Charlie felt her heart beating faster. She wasn't sure why, but there was something about that man that she instinctively feared. Maybe it was the eyes. They were cold and calculating and almost impossibly dark. When she looked at him, she felt like she was staring at a shark. "He's definitely an Argent," Scott muttered.

The three of them waited a solid fifteen seconds before daring to peek around the corner again. After a few more moments of speaking with Allison, the man took the seat next to hers and everybody began finding their places, waiting for the ceremony to start. Allison's head shifted slightly and glanced in their direction. Charlie gave an involuntary intake of breath when the girl's eyes fell on them, but otherwise forced herself to stay still. Scott lifted his hand and sent her a small wave. Allison's lips twitched to form a weak smile of appreciation before turning back to the funeral.

"You know, maybe they're just here for the funeral," Stiles reasoned. "I mean, maybe they're from the non-hunting side of the family. There could be non-hunting Argents. That's possible right?"

"Yeah," Charlie said with a light, bitter snort. "And it's also possible that there's an inter-dimensional vortex that sucks up all the unmatched socks. But it's not exactly likely is it?"

"What are you talking about?" Stiles hissed back. "That totally exists! There's no other viable explanation for where all the socks go. There's a portal in the bottom of everyone's drier."

"Guys!" Scott growled, interrupting the beginnings of one of their patented whisper fights. "I know what they are!" He turned around, leaning forwards slightly and studying all of the newcomers. "They're the reinforcements."

A cold pit began to form in the base of her stomach. "Something's coming, isn't it?" she said, glancing back and forth between Stiles and Scott. "Something not good?"

Before either Stiles or Scott had a chance to respond, two hands descended from the sky and grabbed hold of the back of their shirts, yanking them up to their feet. Charlie let out a surprised squeak and fell backwards, only to find Sheriff Stilinski looming over them, a supremely pissed off expression on his face. "The two of you—unbelievable!" he growled through angry, panting breaths. His eyes were practically spitting rage when they found their way to Charlie.

"Wha—this isn't the squash court!" she said, laughing nervously. "I must have gotten a bit turned around. I'll just—" she pointed off in the direction of the woods "—I'll just be on my way, shall I?"

She was just about to scramble to her feet, but once again Sheriff Stilinski's biting tone filled the air. "Stop. Turn around. Stand." Charlie did as she was told, a self-conscious and guilty wince covering her face. Sheriff Stilinski glowered at her, keeping his hold on Stiles and Scott as they struggled against his harsh grip. "So I'm going to have to start worrying about you too now, is that it?"

Charlie opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, searching for something to say. "Bwah—I don't know about that," she said with a casual shrug. "Maybe—maybe just a little bit of light concern." She held up her thumb and forefinger to indicate, but the sheriff did not appear to be amused in the slightest. "You," he said, inclining his chin at Charlie, "you're coming with me." He turned to Stiles. "Pick up my tie!"

"Sorry," Stiles mumbled as he snatched up the tie he had apparently shoved in his pocket and had fallen to the ground. "I know I'm supposed to ask." The sheriff dragged the two of them across the graveyard with Charlie trailing after them. The entire time a number of harsh and exceedingly creative curses streamed out of his mouth with a rapidity and fluency that Charlie could only describe as impressive. Eventually they ended up in the parking lot. They passed up several in a row of virtually identical cop cars until they found the one that was evidently the sheriff's police cruiser. The sheriff finally released Scott, and reached for the back door of the car, wrenching it open with no small degree hostility. He turned to face the lot of them, a pinched expression on his face. "All of you in." Charlie, Stiles, and Scott all glanced at each other like they were unsure of what to do. The sheriff glowered down at all of them. "Now!"

The three of them jumped and slid into the car. Scott went in first, followed by Charlie, and then finally by Stiles. It was a bit cramped with the three of them stuck back there, which meant that her entire right side was pressed up against Stiles. There was a time not even a few days ago when she wouldn't have even given it a second thought, but now it meant she had that fluttery, nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. Ugh. It was beyond inconvenient.

The slamming of a door knocked Charlie straight out of her reverie. Sheriff Stilinski had taken his spot in the front seat. He twisted around in his seat and looked back at them through the dividing grating with that same slightly judgmental glare. "The three of you are going to behave yourselves, do you hear me?"

"Sure," Scott answered quickly, nodding at the sheriff. "Absolutely. Definitely going to be behaving ourselves. No trouble here."

"Hey, dad," Stiles called out. "As super-cozy as it is back here, do you think you could, like, crack a window or something?"

"I crack the window when you've earned it," the sheriff grumbled.

Stiles just huffed loudly and folded his arms across her chest, sinking lower in his seat. Charlie sighed and looked around the interior of the car. "I've got to say," she said in an upbeat tone, "this is a nice police car. I've been in the back of a couple of police cars, and this is definitely one of the nicest. Very clean, very homey. Plus it smells like curly fries, and that's always a check in the win column."

"How do curly fries smell different from normal fries?" Scott asked.

"They just do, man," Charlie replied, waving her hand dismissively.

"Okay!" the sheriff snapped, turning around to glare at them again. "You all are going to be quiet. Now."

"Or what?" Stiles asked curiously.

"Or Stiles gets grounded."

"Wha—how come I'm the only one getting grounded?!" Stiles spluttered angrily. "How is that fair?!"

"I seem to remember having said something about no talking," the sheriff drawled out. "I think I was pretty specific." A tiny bit of amusement found its way into his voice. Given how frustrating Stiles could be sometimes, Charlie got the impression that the sheriff got some sort of satisfaction from frustrating him right back. Stiles let out a loud, annoyed groan and sent Charlie and Scott a warning glance which roughly translated to 'if either of you two get me grounded I will crazy-murder you' and sank even lower in his seat.

The next twenty minutes or so were spent in absolute silence. Charlie continued to peek out the window trying to get a semi-decent view of what was going on in the graveyard, but the plane of vision was too obstructed by the cars and reporters. It wasn't too much longer, though, before people began to disperse, signifying the end of the event. The reporters climbed into their cars and drove off, until only the police cars were left behind to monitor the scene. It actually started to get insanely boring until a disembodied voice crackled to life, emanating from the police scanner.

"_4-1-5-Adam_."

Immediately Stiles seemed to perk up, leaning forwards so that he could hear better. The sheriff reached forward and snatched up the receiver, holding it close to his mouth. "I didn't copy that—did you just say 4-1-5-Adam?" he asked in a perplexed tone.

"Disturbance in a car," Stiles whispered quietly. Charlie nodded in understanding, but her eyebrows pulled together in a confused frown. She leaned forwards as well, eager to hear what came next.

"_They were taking a heart attack victim, DOA, but on the way to the hospital, something hit them._"

"Wha—hit—hit the ambulance?" the sheriff asked, his confusion mounting.

"_Copy that. I'm standing in front of it right now. Something got in the back. There's blood everywhere—and I mean everywhere._"

All of the sudden, Charlie's blood ran cold. The story she was hearing over the radio was eerily familiar, and the scene being described by the officer was unsettlingly close to the one she had witnessed earlier that day. Dead body ripped to pieces and then abandoned. She didn't need to know anything else to suspect that when they looked closer they would find a missing liver.

"Alright, unit 4," the sheriff sighed into the receiver. "What's your twenty?"

"_Route 5 and Post. I swear I've never seen anything like this before._"

Stiles, Charlie, and Scott exchanged looks, like they were having a silent conversation. It took all of them about half a second to come to a definite conclusion. While the sheriff was still talking on the radio, Stiles reached over and eased open the door to the car. Apparently it hadn't latched fully seeing as Stiles had folded up his dad's tie and used it to block it—something else the sheriff was likely to be pissed about come morning. The three of them slipped out of the car easily and ducked into the woods behind the cemetery.

None of them said a word until they were well behind the tree line, out of the sight of any police officers. Stiles and Scott seemed to know exactly where they were going, leaving Charlie struggling behind then in her shoes. Sighing heavily, she looked at her surroundings. All she saw was an impossible expanse of trees, each one more or less identical to the one standing next to it. She would never understand how the hell Stiles and Scott managed to navigate their way through all this crap. She glanced up at the sky. It had turned to a faded grey color, and the sun was sinking closer and closer to the horizon. Not much longer until it sank below the trees, making everything around them dark and cold. And that meant Lydia was running out of time.

"Okay, so what exactly is the game plan here?" she hissed as she struggled to keep up with them.

"The ambulance attack only happened a couple of minutes ago," Scott called out over his shoulder. "If we get there soon, Lydia's scent will still be there. I can track her from that point on and hopefully I can find her before-"

"Before what?" Charlie mumbled bitterly. "Before she goes into hypothermic shock or before she maims someone else?"

"Hey!" Stiles interjected. He put a hand on Charlie's arm, partly to comfort her and partly to steady her wobbly gait. "Look, let's try and focus on the positives here. The guy in the ambulance was DOA. He was dead. That means she still hasn't actually hurt anyone."

"Well at least that's something," Charlie muttered under her breath. She fell silent, deciding to focus on finding Lydia instead of worrying what might be happening to her. Maybe if she just took it one step at a time—divided everything up into compartments that she could deal with—she could actually get through all of it. It took her a little while to realize that Stiles's hand had stayed on her arm, helping her as she tripped over roots and tottered on her heels. She didn't say anything about it—there was no 'thank you' or refusal of help. They just continued on their path.

After a while it got dark out, making it even more difficult to see where they were going. Scott, given all his enhanced vision, led them as they picked their way through the leaves, dirt, and rocks. Eventually, though, there was something other than the sun to light their way. Police lights. As soon as she saw the flashing red and blue lights, she felt like her heart stopped beating. On instinct Charlie darted forwards, almost taking off at a dead sprint. She heard Stiles whisper-yelling her name, but she ignored him and stumbled forwards, coming to a stop as she reached the embankment. She collapsed down on her stomach, ignoring the dirt that was no doubt ingraining itself in the lace of the dress and peeking up over the side. What she saw did not make her feel better.

When Charlie saw the ambulance in front of her, it was like time stopped. She wasn't looking as something unfolding in front of her—she was looking as a picture. And that meant that she could see every single heart-wrenching and stomach-twisting detail. She didn't know who the man lying on that gurney was, but his arms were lying limp on either side of the bed and he had a deflated look to him. Though that deflated look was probably due to the fact that his chest cavity had been ripped open. His torso was drenched in the same blood that painted the insides of the ambulance. Charlie felt her breathing quicken and her vision began to swim. Oh, shit. It was happening again.

Lights.

Fire.

Blood.

Pain.

Screams.

"What's going on?!"

The sound of those words managed to force their way through the fog that had begun to cloud her mind and broke Charlie out of the tailspin she was spiraling into. She shook her head, trying to get rid of those residual feelings and thoughts, and looked around. Scott and Stiles had both collapsed on the ground next to her and were staring at the ambulance.

"What the hell is Lydia doing?" Stiles murmured, never taking his eyes off the scene.

"I don't know," Scott whispered back.

Charlie's breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to work through it. She forced herself to talk. "Well preliminary evidence would suggest that she's collecting organs," she muttered.

"Okay, she's not collecting organs," Stiles growled, though he didn't sound all that convinced. He let out a shaky sigh and turned to Scott. "Okay, what kept you from doing that? Was it Allison?"

"I hope so," he muttered back.

Charlie ground her teeth together, but didn't say anything. This didn't make any sense on any level. Maybe her doubts as to Lydia's involvement were an exercise in self-delusion, but when it came down to it, the whole thing was still a complete mystery. If Lydia had been turned into a creature filled with bloodlust, why the hell would she seek out and attack two very _dead_ bodies? That wasn't bloodlust. That was desperation. Those were the actions of a scavenger more than anything else. And even if Lydia was a werewolf, she would never resign herself to being a scavenger. She was way too confident for that.

"Do you need to get closer?" Stiles murmured.

Scott lifted his head slightly and sniffed at the cold night air. "No. I got it." He made a move to leave and follow the trail, but before he could get up Stiles's hands darted out and grabbed his shoulder, balling the fabric of the shirt up in his fist. Scott turned back to face him, a concerned look on his face, silently asking what the problem was. Swallowing heavily, Stiles glanced back over at Charlie. His wide, plaintive eyes bored into hers for a moments, like he was trying to dig into her brain and find out exactly what she was thinking and feeling before looking back at Scott.

"Just…I need you to find her," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Alright? For us….just find her."

Scott's eyes darted back and forth between Charlie and Stiles and he nodded earnestly. "I will," he whispered, filling the words with as much truth as he could bestow. "I will."

Without another word, Scott pushed himself to his feet and took off into the fog and darkness. The way he moved, Charlie could almost have sworn that he was a ghost. The only sound she could hear was the wind howling and the light rustling of leaves. She twisted around, looking over her shoulder, only to find that he had already completely disappeared.

Out of the corner of her eye, Charlie could see the lights of the ambulance and the cop cars still flashing, casting momentary shadows across the forest floor. Slowly, she raised her eyes back up to the ambulance. Police officers had begun to mill around, writing things down on their notepads and scratching their heads while the paramedics that were driving the car continued to freak out. Now that Scott had found the trail, she and Stiles could have easily slipped back into the woods and made their way home, but she knew herself and him well enough to know that there was no way in hell that was going to happen. They were just too damn curious. Stiles seemed to be thinking just about the same thing, because she could already tell out of the corner of her eye that he was looking at her.

"You ready for this?" Stiles asked, inclining his head towards the ambulance.

Charlie bit down on the inside of her cheek until it bled. No. She wasn't ready. She would never be ready. And, weirdly enough, knowing that—that all the time in the world wouldn't serve to change anything—that made her ready. She finally made eye contact with Stiles. He was looking at her with that look he got sometimes, where he was squinting at her and trying to read the lines of her face like a book. It was a look of complete support. Shit.

Sighing heavily, Charlie reached forward and grabbed his hand. His twitched slightly, but then gripped back. "As I'll ever be," she answered with a shrug.

With one last nod Stiles climbed to his feet, hauling Charlie up after him. Their hands stayed linked as they walked towards the scene. Charlie blinked as she walked into the flashing lights. All of the people around the ambulance were silhouetted, making it difficult to distinguish their features, but it didn't take long to identify Sheriff Stilinski. He was the one whose shoulders sagged and whose head rolled backwards as he saw their approach. "You know what?" the sheriff called out, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm not even surprised anymore."

"Hey, dad," Stiles said, his voice going in to a higher pitch than usual. He gave an awkward salute. "How's it going?"

The sheriff didn't respond immediately. Instead he advanced on the two meddling kids and grabbed Stiles's arm, dragging him off to the side of the road, ignoring the pained yelping noise that seemed to be coming out of Stiles's mouth. Charlie's hand was yanked out of Stiles's and she trailed after them, swearing under her breath. When he finally stopped, the sheriff let out a long breath and draped an arm over Stiles's shoulder and yanked his son towards him so their faces were right next to each other. "I really didn't think this was something I had to say more than once, but you can't go around breaking into crime scenes."

"Well technically there's no crime scene tape…." Stiles whispered back. "So how was I supposed to know that is was a crime scene? That's an oversight on your part, isn't it? I mean anybody could just come wandering in. What if some poor, helpless kid wandered in off the street and saw all—" he waved his hands at the ambulance "—all of this? I mean that—that would be some seriously traumatizing stuff. Think of the children, Dad—the children!"

"The children are at home," the sheriff grumbled. "You know, that place you're supposed to be right now. And the uniformed police officers and flashing lights might have been a bit of a hint that this is, in fact, a crime scene." Then his eyes snapped to Charlie, leveling her with a serious look. "And you. Three times in one day? You going for some sort of record?"

Charlie winced and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm an overachiever," she said, the sentence coming out more as a question than anything else.

The sheriff released Stiles and ran both his hands down his face. The exhaustion was obviously beginning to get to him. For a sleepy little town with a small sheriff's department, they definitely had their hands full. "Don't you kids have anything better to do? Like homework? Why are you here?"

Well that was something that Charlie could answer with a single word. And that answer would not invite more questions. "Lydia," she murmured. "We were hoping to find out more about what may have happened to her."

At the mention of Lydia, the sheriff's frustration seemed to falter, shifting instead to sympathy. "Look," he murmured, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "We still haven't found anything yet. We've got civilian search parties combing through the woods, we've got officers on patrol—we're doing everything we can to find her." He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Look, I'll let you know the second we find any new information. In the meantime the two of you need to get in the Jeep and _go home_."

Stiles and Charlie exchanged a look before turning back to his dad, each of them wearing a guilty expression. "Yeah…" Stiles drawled out, wincing heavily. "Heh—about that….there, uh, there might be a bit of a snag with the whole Jeep thing."

The sheriff closed his eyes for a moment, saying a silent 'why me?' before looking back down at his son. "And what might that problem be."

Stiles let out another nervous laugh and grinned widely. Actually it was probably more of a grimace. "We, uh, we sort of walked here," he mumbled, miming walking with two of his fingers.

At that point, Sheriff Stilinski was pretty much done with the both of them. Charlie had a sneaking suspicion that they were coming pretty close to breaking his brain. "The two of you—" he pointed back and forth between Stiles and Charlie "—the two of you are going to do exactly what you were supposed to do an hour ago. You're going to get in that car and sit perfectly still until I decide that I have the time to drive the both of you back to your cars. Got it?"

"Are you gonna crack a window this time?" Stiles demanded, looking at his dad expectantly.

Charlie could practically hear the sound of teeth grinding as the sheriff glowered at his son. "In the car," he growled. "Now."

Stiles rolled his eyes slightly and made a move towards the car, but Charlie stayed put. Her eyes slid past the sheriff to the scene behind him. Beyond the flashing lights of the surrounding cop cars, she could see straight into the ambulance. At this distance the image was even more harrowing. It looked like somebody had ripped him open and painted a fatal Jackson Pollack piece over the white interior of the ambulance with the man's insides. "What happened here?"

The sheriff followed her gaze to the ambulance and all of the sudden his shoulders sagged. "We're still trying to figure that out. And I would appreciate it if you guys didn't go running your mouths about this all over school."

"Wha—why would you say that?" Stiles demanded, a little miffed. "I keep secrets—I am an excellent secret-keeper! I'm a freaking vault of secrets!"

The sheriff's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Is that so?"

Stiles blinked, and then his eyes darted around like he had been cornered. "N—no. I mean I'm an open book. I'm just saying that I have, you know, the capacity to keep secrets. But me? No secrets." He waved his arm in one long sweep, like he was wiping the board clean or something. "None. None at all. Zip—"

"Is his liver gone?" Charlie interrupted, cutting off what would have turned into a long, rambling speech of charming nonsense. "Is it the same thing that happened this morning? At the graveyard?"

The sheriff sighed and scratched at his forehead. "When are you kids going to learn that information on open cases is not available to the public?"

"Wha—since when are we 'the public'?" Stiles demanded, using air quotes. "Come on, dad! Seriously?!"

Stiles and his dad continued to argue in that contentious but simultaneously good-natured, but Charlie's gaze was drawn elsewhere. She wasn't sure why her gaze had shifted to the forest. Maybe it was because she was trying to look anywhere but in that ambulance. But the reason she was looking in tat direction really didn't matter. All that mattered was that those flashing lights were hitting something that wasn't trees or some adorable little deer.

It was a silhouette of a person. Slowly, Charlie began to walk towards the side of the road. Hope sprung up in her chest, but she tried to quash it down just as quickly to head off the disappointment. But every step she took the silhouette became clearer—better formed. But still, that part of her brain that kicked into self-preservation mode refused to believe it. Soon enough, she was far away from the ambulance—from the rest of the rest of the group. The silhouette moved closer and closer, into the light. It reached up a hand to push a branch out of the way, and then there was no denying it anymore.

"Lydia?"

The word itself was weak and quiet, cracking in Charlie's throat. Hell, Charlie didn't even hear it herself. Her blood was pumping hard in her ears, drowning out any other sound. But just because nobody heard her say it, didn't mean that her words didn't carry any truth. It was Lydia. She was trembling as she slowly walked towards the road, arms covering her chest and wearing nothing but her hospital bracelet and some dead leaves that stuck in her hair. Her eyes were darting about like a cornered, feral animal's. But it was her. And she was okay. Or alive at the very least.

Charlie had no idea why, but she couldn't move. Her brain was caught in that spot between elation and absolute terror, and for some reason that made her grow roots. Nobody else seemed to notice the girl's presence until Stiles got his head out of the conversation with his dad enough to realize that she herself had wandered off.

"Charlie, where're you—" Stiles's words died in his throat when he looked in direction. "Lydia?"

All of the sudden, all of the noise—the voices, the stomping feet—came to a complete stop. Stiles's voice echoed across the street, louder and stronger this time.

"Lydia!"

Lydia's eyes snapped up from where she was staring at the ground, for the first time looking the bystanders full in the face. "Well?" she called out expectantly, lifting her arms in the air and exposing her full form. "Isn't anybody going to get me a coat?"

With that one snarky reply, Charlie felt like her heart up and exploded. She felt her eyes begin to sting as the tears began to well. It was like the dam broke, and her emotions were spilling out of her freaking tear ducts. It was like something in her consciousness had snapped back into place and she had control over her own limbs again. She sprinted forwards, colliding with Lydia and practically knocking her over as she wrapped her arms around the girl. Unlike the one earlier in the hospital, Lydia didn't hesitate to hug back. Her arms wrapped around Charlie's middle, squeezing her hand like she was trying to tether herself back to the world. And Charlie squeezed back just as tight.

"You're okay now," she whispered into Lydia's, trying to convince herself just as much was she was trying to convince the girl clinging to her. "You're okay. Thank God you're okay."

Lydia was shaking with the cold and Charlie held onto her even tighter, lending her warmth. The girl was almost impossibly cold, even compared to the frigid night air. It seeped through Charlie's thin clothes, making her shiver as well. That just made Charlie hold her tighter. It was like she was trying to lend her life force or something.

"Jesus, Charlie," Lydia drawled out, her voice still shaking slightly. "You need to learn how to control yourself around me. People are going to start talking."

"Let them talk," Charlie whispered back, trying hard to keep her voice from cracking with emotion. "I just can't quit you."

"Ugh," Lydia scoffed. "Derivative."

"You complete me," Charlie mumbled back, ignoring the mild frustration in her friend's voice.

"Lame," Lydia muttered. "And plagiarism"

"You make me want to be a better man."

"Also plagiarism. And also weird."

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

"Charlie, will you shut the hell up?"

"As you wish."

At that point Charlie wasn't sure what to do—how to proceed. Her embrace was currently the only thing guarding her friend from the cold and from the prying eyes of about half a dozen police officers. Her flimsy jacket wasn't going to make much of a difference. Luckily, Sheriff Stilinski showed up with his own large jacket draped over his arm. "Here you go," he muttered almost self-consciously, holding the jacket out and stretching his arm out almost as far as it could go. Nodding at him, Charlie removed one arm from around Lydia and took it from him. Immediately, the sheriff turned his back to them, blocking the view of the rest of the bystanders and giving Lydia some modesty.

Finally releasing Lydia, Charlie held up the coat, allowing Lydia to easily slide her arms in. "Ugh," she muttered as she zipped the jacket up and removed her hair from under the collar. "Never in my life did I actually think I would be happy to be wearing khaki."

An involuntary snort forced its way out of Charlie's nose, but it died as soon as she took in Lydia's full appearance for the first time. Sheriff Stilinski's jacket was large on her—the sleeves almost completely covered her hands and the bottom hit her about mid-thigh—leaving her more or less covered. But not quite covered enough. Charlie's eyes travelled down to Lydia's legs. They were dotted with an impossible number of nicks and cuts from rocks and branches and her feet were caked with a mix of dirt and blood. Her whole body probably looked like that.

Again, Charlie felt the uncontrollable urge to hug the girl. So she did. And again, Lydia didn't put up the least little bit of resistance. The tears that had been threatening to spill forth finally began leaking out of the corners of her eyes. "If you ever disappear like that again, I swear I will freaking kill you," she mumbled, the words shaking as they came out of her mouth.

"Hm," Lydia replied, her voice squeaky and high pitched. "That seems kind of counter-intuitive don't you think?"

Her words had all the easy confidence that was so typical of Lydia, but her voice was tight and forced. She was scared. And frankly, even though the girl was right in front of her, Charlie was still scared too. Because she got the idea that neither of them knew what exactly had happened to her. They probably would have stayed in that position for a lot longer if someone hadn't gently cleared their throat right next to them. Both girls looked up, only to find the sheriff standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets and trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

"Look," he murmured quietly. "We've got a couple of questions for you and the paramedic over there is going to check to make sure if you're okay. It'll only take a minute, and I'll take you straight to the hospital."

"Charlie's coming with me."

The words came out of Lydia's mouth so quickly it took Charlie to parse apart what she had said. The sheriff just smiled warmly and nodded. "Of course she will."

Charlie nodded and squeezed Lydia's hand comfortingly. "Of course I will."

Placing a hand on Lydia's back, the sheriff directed Lydia over to where one of the ambulance's paramedics—she was pretty sure her name was Edith—was waiting for her. She watched for a moment as he shone a flashlight in her eyes, checking for a concussion. Finally, Charlie glanced over to her left to see Stiles standing there looking a bit concussed himself, mouth hanging open and staring off into the distance without seeing anything in particular. She rolled her eyes to herself and ignored that small, petty sting she felt before sidling up next to him. "Pick your jaw up, Stilinski," she muttered, folding her arms across her chest. "It's gonna start getting dirty dragging on the floor like that."

Stiles's head snapped in her direction and his eyes widened visibly. "Wha—what?" he stammered out. "I didn't—I mean I wasn't—"

His absolute and total befuddlement was actually pretty endearing. "Calm yourself, Stilinski," she said, elbowing him in the side. He let out a nervous laugh and kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, until something in his face changed. The complete joy and relief of finding her faded away a bit, leaving them both with more somber expressions. "What do you think happened out there?" he whispered. "What do you think happened to her?"

Charlie stared off as the paramedic held up his finger, making Lydia track it with her eyes. "I don't know," Charlie murmured back. "I really don't know." She looked up at Stiles. His eyebrows had pulled together in a frown and he was gnawing on his lip anxiously. She put a hand on his arm to reassure him. "I'll take good care of her," she said earnestly.

Stiles's eyebrows pulled even closer together as he looked down at her. "Yeah," he nodded. "I know you will. O—of course you will."

The two of them stared at each other for a moment. And Stiles had a look in his eye that she didn't quite recognize. For some reason she felt like he was trying to tell her something, but she had no idea what the hell it was.

"Oswin!"

The sound of the sheriff's voice echoed against the trees, making Charlie and Stiles jump. The two of them cleared their throats uncomfortably and looked over at him. The sheriff simply waved an arm, indicating that it was time to leave. Then, all of the sudden, it was like a shot went off. Stiles scrambled to the car with a speed that should have been impossible given the amount of flailing involved in the process. He collided with his dad's car with a loud, potentially bruise-inducing thump. His hands fumbled for a moment with the handle before he managed to wrench the door open. Lydia gave him a bit of a strange look as she slid into the back seat and Stiles just gave her a long wave. As Charlie approached the car, the sheriff came up to Stiles with a stern expression on his face.

"Sean is going to be taking you home," he told his son. "Do me a favor and actually stay there this time."

"Yup," Stiles said, bobbing his head. "Absolutely. Stayyyyyyyying put. Not going anywhere."

After sparing his son one last skeptical glance, he turned to Charlie. "You ready."

Charlie took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah."

With that she slid into the car and Stiles closed the door after her, offering up one last small wave as his dad shoved the keys in the ignition and made the engine roar to life. A few seconds later they had taken off and were speeding to the hospital with the sirens blaring.

Charlie looked over at the girl next to her, trying to gauge her state of mind. Lydia was just staring out in front of her, almost unseeing, with a hollow, pensive look on her face. Charlie got the sneaking suspicion that she was trying to decipher something, which was unsettling. Lydia never had to decipher anything—she always already knew the answer. After a few moment, she noticed Charlie looking at her and stiffened, adopting her usual perfect posture and brushing her tangled hair over her shoulder. "Typical," she said, looking Charlie up and down with her usual critical eye. "The one time you wear a dress I completely approve of, and it's covered in mud."

It wasn't time to talk about it. The little bit of vulnerability shining through in Lydia's eyes was enough to tell Charlie that. It wasn't time to talk about it. Not yet. So she let out a snort and rolled her eyes. "Well at least I'm not naked."

"Please," Lydia said, raising her eyebrows. "I would rather be naked then wear half the things you wear."

Charlie sighed and shifted in her seat so she was looking directly at her friend. "Lydia, shut the hell up while I pick the leaves out of your hair."

"Hey!" Lydia snapped. "Nobody touches my hair but me and licensed professionals!"

Charlie threw her hands in the air, effectively backing off. Lydia made quick work of her hair, her fingers combing through the tangles with a speed and skill that required years of honing. When she was done, she placed her hands in her lap in that prim way she usually did, but this time her fingers couldn't stop fidgeting. Reaching over, Charlie grabbed one of the small, cold hands and laced the fingers together. Lydia exhaled sharply and twitched, but she squeezed back. And then she said something. It was almost to quiet for Charlie to hear.

"Thanks for finding me."

Charlie bit her lip and offered up a small, comforting smile. "You're an idiot if you don't think I always will."

**So there's chapter 4 and the end of the first episode! I hope you liked it. I've noticed that a lot of the Stiles-Charlie interactions for the past couple of chapters are mostly about her struggles and her issues, but Lydia and Allison and everything is still the main thing on everybody's mind. Don't worry! They'll be back to their usual selves soon enough.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! You guys have been so good to me lately. Lets keep that train rolling *wink* But seriously, you guys are the best.**

**Also, I want to say thank to Roxu. She made me a couple of lovely banners! It's the first time anybody has ever made me anything and I just wanted to say how very much I appreciate it!**

**SOUNDTRACK UPDATE  
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**Charlie gets ready for the funeral, reflects on everything going on.  
**

**-~-~-~Pompeii - Bear's Den**

**Finding Lydia and driving to the hospital together.**

**-~-~-~Take Care - Tom Rosenthal**

**Oh, and it hasn't gone in the soundtrack yet, but it will-check out the song 'Retrograde' by James Blake if you haven't already.**

**Gah! Apparently Laura Webb (the Teen Wolf music supervisor) and I agree on just about everything! Crap! I added the song 'Ghost' by Sir Sly (I've been listening to them for a few months now) to my story playlist. I usually do a Google search to see if a song has ever been used in anything before and what do I find? She used that song! I settled on it without even knowing it was on the Teen Wolf Soundtrack! #frustration.**


	5. Five by Five

**Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.**

**A huge thank you to 19irene96, Montanasmith5897, YellowSubmarine93, imrid-amrad-ursul, Bookiee, BrightEyes20, katiesgotagun, Shes-The-Proto-Type, Daenerys86, TheMMMG, swanqueen4, bagginsoftheshire666, Vcarp1993, Female whovian, artificial-paradises, Roxu, DarlingPeterPan, AspiredWriterr, nessafly, SimplyKelly, winchesterxgirl, SK-Scatenado, Gee Brittany, Guest, jennifer yo, Emmalee Adams, Liv, X23 Maximoff, WhatsGoingOn, easythrowaway, zvx56, BubblyBanter, Everlastingabyss, Pirate-chan, Tania, Undeniable Weirdness, Aoibhinn, Paranormal Inkfish, BriancyyD, and Guest. Thanks so much! I really appreciate it. And thank you to BrittWitt16 for being a super-genius who inspires me daily.  
**

**So if you want to check out the soundtracks for my story, I have made a Spotify account for them. You can find a link on my profile. Same goes for my polyvore account.  
**

Chapter 5 – Five by Five

"How does it feel to be standing on the edge of the cliff that is life, staring into the deep, dark chasm of death that is your ultimate demise?"

"I don't know, Charlie. How does it feel to constantly be making ridiculously labored metaphors and generally annoying the hell out of everybody?"

"Maybe I'm intending to annoy the hell out of you," she replied, a smug smile pulling at the corner of her lips. "Maybe that's my super-diabolical master plan to distract you from the task at hand."

"Well if that's your strategy, you've definitely screwed yourself over," Stiles shot back. "You annoy the hell out of me so often I've built up a tolerance to it. My mind is the freaking Fortress of Solitude." He tapped a finger against the side of his head. "The trash talk? Not going to breach the walls."

"If you're calling yourself dense," Charlie said, poking him in the shoulder, "then I totally agree."

"Oh my God, I hate you so freaking much."

It was entirely possible that the seat cushion of the sofa was now saggy and misshapen, perfectly conforming to her shape like memory foam. It would make perfect sense. She and Stiles had been sitting on that sofa for hours, Xbox controllers in their hands and massive bowl of popcorn sitting between the two of them.

The way Charlie saw it, video games were good for two things. The first was stress relief. There was nothing that could relieve the desire to kick and scream and blow shit up in real life the way that kicking and screaming and blowing shit up in the virtual world. It was kind of cathartic really, even if it did desensitize today's youth to violence. It wasn't like there wasn't enough violence and dead bodies in Beacon Hills without all the virtual stuff. But as invaluable as video games were for her personal stress relief, that wasn't why Charlie was playing right now.

Distraction. That was the second thing video games were good for. It was probably also the reason they were so unhealthy. Before arriving at Beacon Hills, Charlie hadn't been the most social of people. Every once in a while she would binge play Halo for hours upon hours, losing all concept of time until the rising sun sent rays of light stabbing at her eyes. It was a form of mental procrastination that allowed her to check out of life, and right now she could really use that.

Lydia had spent the night at the hospital again. The whole experience seemed a little bit like déjà vu. Mrs. Martin got to the hospital within minutes of their own arrival. As soon as she managed to assure herself that Lydia was, in fact, alright, she proceeded to give Charlie, the sheriff, and pretty much everybody else inside a fifteen foot radius, giant, earnest, suffocating hugs. Charlie had barely known the woman before, but somehow Lydia, hospital waiting rooms, and terrible coffee had turned them into something a little more than random acquaintances, though Charlie wasn't quite sure what.

The doctors put Lydia back in that faded blue hospital gown and ran her through all of the tests again. Physically she was going to be fine. She was suffering from some dehydration, very mild hypothermia, and a few inconsequential nicks and abrasions here and there. Nothing that couldn't be fixed by some fluids, blankets, hot chocolate, and a crapload of sleep. But that was part of what scared Charlie the most.

There was nothing wrong with Lydia. Nothing at all. She was conscious, she was talking, the wound in her side was healing at a perfectly human rate. In effect, she was totally normal. Not that that was a bad thing, but it did beg a very important question. What had happened to her in the first place? What had prompted her to go on her little walkabout? Nobody had any idea. It seemed that Lydia's memory of the past twenty-four hours had been blanked out—she remembered climbing into the shower and nothing after that. The doctors were calling it a 'fugue state'. That meant a temporary bout of amnesia—losing both memories and a sense of personal identity. The full explanation involved lots of highly, Latinized medi-babble that Charlie didn't totally understand, but it left Charlie with one, definite answer. And that was that nobody had a freaking clue what had happened to her. Which meant whatever did happen, it was probably supernatural and they weren't out of the woods yet. So to speak.

And as if that wasn't enough, while the doctors had banished her from Lydia's room while they ran their tests Charlie got 'The Call'. And yes, it did need to be capitalized like that. The information conveyed over the course of that phone call was that shitty. Well actually there was good and bad news, but by the time the bad news was done Charlie almost couldn't remember what the good news was anymore.

Charlie was actually kind of surprised when she saw Scott's name flashing across the screen. He was a friend and a close one, but they didn't really communicate all that much outside of school and…well….Stiles. Which is probably why she answered phone with a very abrupt 'why are you calling me?'.

Turns out she was right. Lydia hadn't attacked any of those corpses. There was another player—another werewolf. An omega…..the wolf without a pack looking for a home with Derek. She remembered that swooping feeling of relief that washed through her when she heard those words. Hell, she almost busted out laughing when she heard it. But that gleeful laughter was abruptly cut short. Because that guy she had noticed at the funeral—the one with the shark-like eyes and air of brutality—he was Allison's grandfather. Not to mention a total psycho who cut people—the other werewolf to be precise—in half with a broadsword. Oh, and that code Mr. Argent kept going on and on about? The one where they don't hurt werewolves who hadn't harmed other people? That was out the window. It was open season on wolves. Scott and Derek had just become the Bugs Bunny to the Argents' Elmer Fudd. Except the Argents were actually competent killers.

Crap. Allison was going to have even more family issues now, wasn't she?

After the epically traumatizing 'oh shit' moment that followed that phone call, Charlie forced herself to lock it all down. She went to the bathroom, splashed some water on her face, and made her way back to Lydia's room. It wasn't long before Mrs. Martin fell asleep in her chair. Lydia and Charlie, though, the two of them stayed up late watching TV talking and gossiping about pretty much everything except for the past twenty-four hours. That is until they both drifted off to sleep. Some time well past midnight Charlie felt a small, delicate hand on her shoulder. She blinked her bleary eyes only to find Mel standing over her, a comforting smile on her face. After Charlie extricated her hand from Lydia's, Mel practically scooped her up, put her in the car, and drove until she deposited Charlie in her bed. Charlie wasn't really in the right place to put up much resistance.

Honestly, the school day that followed was a bit of a blur. It was almost like she was sitting still while the rest of the world moved around her. Lack of sleep could do that to you. She had called Lydia between classes to check in, which apparently wasn't entirely appreciated. Given the number of people poking and prodding at her and asking if she was okay, she was probably beginning to feel more like a rag doll than anything else. And Charlie's over-the-phone coddling didn't help that feeling. With each call, Lydia's voice got the tiniest bit more frustrated until finally, just after lunch, Lydia snapped. The exact words used were: 'Charlie, if I feel the urge to go streaking through the woods, _I'll _call _you_. How about that? In the meantime, I'm going to be soaking in a bubble bath until my skin prunes up. So stop damaging my calm and start paying attention in class. We wouldn't want those grades of yours to start slipping, would we?' And with that she had promptly hung up the phone, leaving Charlie with nothing but static. She had gotten the message. Lydia would call when she was ready to talk. Until then, Charlie wouldn't be looking after her. She would be prying.

Charlie didn't pay attention in class. She couldn't pay attention in class. There was just too much for her to think about—to worry about. It was all just so mentally exhausting. In fact, she passed out during seventh period economics—slept through the whole damn thing. Coach Finstock didn't call her out on it or make any effort to wake her up. Charlie wasn't sure whether that was because he knew about what was going on with Lydia or because he was trying to get on her good side before making another run at Mel. Either way, that little bit of sleep should have left her a little bit refreshed. It didn't. Apparently her dreams weren't safe from worrisome thoughts either. Which was why she and Stiles had made the joint decision to shirk all other responsibilities, ignore homework, eat a crapload of junk food, and play mindless video games.

"The inky void is fast approaching, my friend," Charlie muttered, her fingers darting quickly across the buttons and watching the on-screen character moving about carefully, dodging through the obstacles as it closed in on Stiles. "Soon enough you're going to be sucked into oblivion, so get ready for a world of pain."

"That sentence has way too many syllables," Stiles muttered back. "Apologize."

"Sure," she smirked. "I'll apologize for that as soon as I'm done apologizing for brutally murdering your little blue Stormtrooper."

Stiles's hands tightened on the controls and he began hitting the buttons harder. "Okay, I know you're trying to piss me off and get me to screw up by calling them Stormtroopers, but it's not gonna work."

"You sure about that?" It took a few more seconds and button strikes before her character popped up from a rock and blasted Stiles's, making it crumple to the ground.

"Wha—no!" Stiles shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "How—how is that—?" Charlie hopped up to her feet let out a whoop before dancing around in an insanely uncoordinated jig while Stiles shook his head at her. "You look ridiculous right now. You realize that, right?"

She let out a sigh and collapsed back on the sofa, still grinning widely. "That's just your ego talking," she said, smacking him in the chest. She grabbed a handful of popcorn and shoved it into her mouth, almost struggling to chew. "So now I've kicked your ass at 'Mortal Kombat', 'Call of Duty' and 'Halo'," she pronounced, ticking the list off on her fingers and spraying little bits of popcorn all over the place. "Is there something else we've got on the list that you might be better at? How about 'Mario Cart'? Or 'Pong'?"

Stiles let out a spluttering cough and swung his head around to glare at her. "'Pong'?" he demanded, practically spitting with frustration. "'Pong'? Are you freaking kidding me?"

Charlie forced back that grin threatening to form and shrugged her shoulders casually. "You got any other ideas, Stilinski?"

Stiles bristled and glowered at her. "How about Dance Dance Revolution?"

It was Charlie's turn to narrow her eyes and glower at him. "Low blow, Stilinski. Low blow."

They glared good-naturedly at each other for a few moments before Stiles grabbed the controller again and shifted around so he was facing the TV. "Come on, Oswin," he muttered. "We're playing for two out of three. And this time get ready to get your ass kicked."

Rolling her eyes to herself, Charlie picked up her controller and the game began again. Stiles did win that time, but if she was being entirely honest, her head wasn't quite in the game. They used to be able to hang out just the two of them and it was so freaking easy. There was no subtext, no doubt, no hidden agenda, no nothing. They were just friends. Good friends. But now there was always that small twinge of nervousness in the base of her stomach. Her first instinct had been to avoid it at all costs, but who was she kidding? She couldn't avoid Stiles if she tried. And she didn't want to.

Aversion therapy. That's what she had decided to call it. The term didn't make much sense given the fact that she didn't hold any dislike for Stiles—it was quite the opposite. But the principal was the same. The more time she spent with him, the more she would learn how to deal with those pesky little feelings. They weren't going to be going away any time soon, but at least she would be able to control it better. And soon enough everything would be back to normal. It had to be. But there was that little voice in the corner of her head that kept telling her that this whole 'aversion therapy' thing was a giant crock of shit and she just wanted to spend more time with him.

Soon enough two out of three games turned into three out of five turned into four out of seven. There was a lot more shouting and trash talk and more than a few laughs, but Charlie couldn't shake that general feeling of worry. The hours ticked by and the sun began to sink lower and lower before it disappeared beneath the horizon. Charlie won most of the games—she had an almost embarrassing amount of practice playing Halo—but she still lost more often than usual. Her eyes kept travelling to the cell phone sitting on the coffee table in front of her.

Lydia hadn't called or texted since that last time they spoke after lunch except for one quick text telling Charlie that she had been released from the hospital and was going back home. Charlie had texted back asking if she needed anything. Lydia's reply was prompt.

_Quit being so clingy. I know your world revolves around me and everything, but you're going to start embarrassing yourself._

Objectively Charlie knew that if anything had actually happened to Lydia, she would have been informed by now. Mrs. Martin definitely would have told her. But she couldn't stop the 'what-ifs' rolling around in her head. Lydia kept insisting that she was fine, but Charlie couldn't help but wait for the other Jimmy Choo to drop.

When Charlie lifted her eyes from the phone again, she realized the game had been paused. She furrowed her eyebrows and looked over at Stiles. His face was screwed up in an expression that was a strange mixture of concern and comfort. He picked up the bowl of popcorn between them and put it on the coffee table so there was no barrier between them before shifting on the sofa so that he was looking directly at Charlie. "How's she doing?"

Charlie blinked and jerked her head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Charlie," Stiles said with a quick roll of his eyes. He nodded at the television. "Your head has so not been in the game. Which either means that you're distracted or you're letting me win. And we both know you would rather gnaw off one of your own toes than _let_ anyone beat you at anything ever so—" he waved his hands "—distraction. Plus you've been looking at your phone once every freaking thirty seconds so…."

He let the words trail off and looked at her expectantly. Charlie squeezed her eyes shut and made a face. Since when was she so transparent? Or maybe Stiles was just that observant. Whatever the cause, it was seriously annoying. Sighing heavily, she pulled nervously at the end of her ponytail. "I don't have any reason to think that she's not okay," she muttered, again staring at her phone like it had betrayed her. "She said she would call me when she needed me."

"And you're wondering why she hasn't yet?" Stiles prompted. "Do you think she's still—"

"I don't know," she said, cutting him off. The words came out a little too loud and a little too quick. Charlie let out a groan of frustration and rubbed at her forehead before looking back up at Stiles. "Lydia seems okay," she said, enunciating the words carefully. "But that's the thing—she wants to seem okay. She's trying to seem okay. I'm not sure if she actually _is _okay." She drew her legs up to her chest, perching her feet on the edge of the sofa, and wrapped her arms around them. "Lydia's so used to being in control of herself and generally everybody else around her….I'm just worried she'll go into a tailspin instead of admitting that she doesn't have everything together. That she won't come to me. She's not very good at letting other people help her."

Stiles let out a small scoff and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, gee," he proclaimed sarcastically. "I've never, ever met anybody else like that before."

"Hahaha," Charlie drawled back, wrinkling her nose at him. "I get it. I'm scary and defensive and cagey. I know that. But I'm not the one who was in a coma because she was bitten by a marauding werewolf. I'm just—I'm a bit freaked out, okay? I've got no idea how to help her because I've got no idea what the problem is yet. Hell, I don't even know if there is a problem!"

"Hey." Stiles reached out and placed a comforting hand on her arm, making Charlie's eyes snap to his. She almost resented those amber-colored eyes of his. They made her feel safe when she had no right to feel safe. "Look," Stiles continued, "if Lydia needs help, we'll help her. We'll always help her. But we can't see into the future, okay? If we start trying to, we're all just gonna go freaking crazy."

Charlie let out an indelicate snort and shook her head. Between the intermittent hallucinations and her persistent and irritating dreams of Peter Hale, she wasn't entirely certain she wasn't already going crazy. Which apparently made her a bit of a hypocrite because she didn't intend on letting anybody else in on that until she knew exactly what was going on. "I know," Charlie mumbled, nodding at him. "I'm just not so good at the whole 'not worrying' thing when it comes to Lydia. Not to mention all the other crap going on. I mean the full moon's tomorrow."

A theatrical wince covered Stiles's face. "Aw, man! Why'd you have to go and remind about that? You totally just took a giant dump on all the fun we were having."

"Well I don't know about you," Charlie drawled out with a roll of the eyes, "but when one of your friends starts sprouting terrible looking facial hair, fangs, and creepy-ass claws, not to mention howling at the moon, you tend to make a mental note. Are you seriously saying you haven't been thinking about that all day? Because I'll bet those rusty little cogs in your brain—" she lifted a finger to her head and waved in a circle "—they've been turning all day."

"Hey!" Stiles spluttered, jabbing a finger at her. "The cogs are not rusty! They are perfectly lubricated!" Hearing his own words, he scrunched up his face into an expression of distaste. "Okay, that sounded…not like I meant it to sound."

"I'll do my best to un-remember it," Charlie deadpanned, "but I'm not making any guarantees. It was kind of hilarious and I may or may not be bringing it up all the time."

Stiles let out a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. She knew exactly what he was thinking about, because she was thinking about the exact same thing. Last time Scott's time of the month rolled around, he turned into a total dick, not to mention tried to kill several people, including Allison. He hadn't exactly won any gold stars for self-control. "Man, I'm just not sure what we're gonna do. I mean I don't know if you remember last time, but it didn't go so well. I mean, what if this time it's 'Scott's A Psycho Version 2.0, now with broadswords!'" His mouth dropped open and he shook his head with that twitchy sort of energy he always had when he got worked up about something. "I—I mean who the hell carries broadswords?" he demanded, waving his hands about. "What the hell is the point of a broadsword? What is this—friggin' King Arthur's court? They're insanely heavy, blunt, and how the hell are you supposed to hide one when you're carrying it around! It's totally impractical!"

"You Googled 'broadsword' didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, but that's not the point!" he spluttered. "This dude's operating based on style points alone. What the hell kind of a person does that?"

Charlie sighed and ran her hands down her face. What kind of man did things like that? It was a good question. Not a good man. Not an honorable man. Not a man troubled by something so mundane as morality. And finally, a man who was preoccupied with showmanship—the broadsword and the funeral were enough to demonstrate that. "A malignant narcissist," she murmured after a few seconds consideration.

"Malignant narcissist," Stiles muttered, nodding along with the words as he pronounced them. "That's not so comforting, Charlie."

"It wasn't supposed to be comforting," she replied with a shrug. "Kate came from somewhere."

Stiles snapped his fingers and pointed at her sarcastically. "Again, not making me feel better."

Charlie released her legs from where they were still pulled to her chest and shifted so that she was sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing Stiles. "Look, that old crazy dude—Gerard or whatever the hell his name is—he doesn't know about Scott."

"Yeah," Stiles protested, "but Allison's parents do."

"I don't like Mr. Argent, but he is a man of his word," Charlie assured him. "He's not going to give Scott up."

"Unless he catches Scott and Allison together," Stiles reminded her.

"Right," Charlie said, nodding reluctantly. "Unless the lovers in the nighttime get caught."

"Okay," Stiles replied, waving his hands around a bit. "Am I the only who's really friggin' tired of the whole 'Romeo and Juliet' thing going on with the two of them? It's exhausting, and kinda annoying."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure they're tired of it too," Charlie said, raising her eyebrows at him. "The whole death threat thing must be a total drag."

"O—okay," Stiles said with a roll of the eyes and holding up a hand to get her to stop talking. "Alright, judge-y. Let's just focus on keeping Scott from getting hacked in half. I'd really rather not have my best friend be drawn and quartered."

"You get chopped into four pieces when you're drawn and quartered," Charlie pointed out.

Stiles let out a scoff and stared at her, looking mildly scandalized. "What are you—the freaking encyclopedia for medieval torture?"

"Okay, one," she said holding up a finger. "I read. Big freaking reveal. And two, it's called drawn and _quartered_. Quartered literally means divided into four. It's not rocket science."

"Alright," Stiles muttered rolling his eyes. "Can we just agree that we need to help Scott not become a raging lunatic and wander straight into the crosshairs of an old, crazy guy with a broadsword?"

"Okay," Charlie said with a definitive nod. "Let's do that."

Stiles stared off into space and rubbed at the back of his head, putting his 'thinking face' on. "Okay, so nobody who's super-into hemi-corpo-thingys knows about Scott, right?" he reasoned. "So we just need to make sure he stays out of sight for the night. End of story."

"Sounds reasonable," Charlie agreed. "How're we going to keep him out of sight?"

Stiles jerked his head to the side noncommittally. "Same thing we did last time. Except, you know, it works."

Charlie blew out a long breath and shrugged. "Okay. This is an excellent plan. I am officially excited to be a part of it." She raised a hand in the air expectantly. "High five for competency?"

"High five for competency."

They slapped their palms together, giving rise to a loud clapping noise. Soon enough, though, the clapping noise faded away, leaving the two of them alone, with nothing but them and their thoughts. And for the first time Charlie could recall, neither of them could think of anything to say, leaving them in silence. But, weird enough as it might sound, the silence wasn't quiet. It was like there was a hum, like that residual electrical sound you hear right after you turn off the television off.

Tension. Audible tension. It was the exact kind of thing that she was trying to avoid in the first place. She and Stiles were fine when they had something to talk about—which, admittedly, was like 95% of the time—but every time the conversation fell into a lull, every time she felt like she _should_ be talking, there was this….weird vibe. And she was pretty sure Stiles was beginning to pick up on it, and that couldn't lead to anything good. So she did the only thing she could think of. She grabbed a handful of popcorn in her mouth and began chewing frantically. Not talking was a lot easier if you had an excuse in the first place. Unfortunately, those fluffy, white, popped kernels melted in her mouth, leaving with her with no excuse. So instead she snatched up the controls to the Xbox and turned back to the TV, nodding at him. "Ready to be destroyed?"

Then a weird look crossed Stiles's face. His eyebrows drew together almost imperceptibly and his jaw twitched for a moment. He almost looked…disappointed? No. That didn't make any sense. Charlie waited for a few moments, unsure of what to do next. He cleared his throat and scratched absently at his forehead. "Yeah," he muttered, glancing back at the screen. "Yeah, sure."

The two of them slipped pretty easily back into the routine of video games and semi-incoherent trash talk, but Charlie felt like something had changed. It was like she was highly aware of herself and her surroundings—everything had been heightened. And more than anything else, she was aware of how close Stiles was sitting to her and the fact that they were very much alone. Ugh. Crushes were the worst. Maybe that was why they were called 'crushes' in the first place. Because they were soul-crushingly annoying and inconvenient.

After another half-hour and a full bowl of popcorn, Charlie heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock. The door swung open and a tall, khaki-clad figure stepped through. "Stiles, you'd better be here," the sheriff called out as he entered. "I swear, if you're crashing another crime scene you and I are going to have a sternly-worded conversation about professional ethics and how you're going to stop being a pain in the ass."

Stiles paused the game and straightened, cocking his head to the side so that he could hear better. "Are you saying there's another crime scene?"

A loud sigh echoed through the halls as the footsteps approached. "I know you register the words," the sheriff called out at his son, "but I don't think you're really listening." The footsteps continued to draw nearer until finally the sheriff appeared in the doorway to the living room. At the sight of the two teenagers, he let out a quiet groan and folded his arms across his chest. Charlie took a few seconds away from the game to shoot him a smile and a salute. The sheriff responded to her smile with a sardonic smirk and nodded at her. "Charlie. Why am I surprised that you're here?"

"Not sure," Charlie replied with a shrug. "I'd say it's a combination of work-induced exhaustion and lack of foresight."

"Really?" Sheriff Stilinski said, pointing back and forth between the two of them. "Because I was going to say it had more to do with the fact that it's a school night and you've got homework to do."

"Nah," she drawled out, never taking her eyes off the game. "It's definitely the exhaustion thing. It happens to the best of us—don't beat yourself up about it."

The sheriff let out a snort of either amusement or exasperation. Probably both. "I can assure you that wasn't my intention."

"Great, Dad," Stiles mumbled absently. His eyes were locked on the screen, where he was desperately trying to ward off Charlie's onslaught as she fired on him. "That's good to hear." His fingers few across the controller and he leaned to the side, like he was trying to physically control the movements of the little guy on the screen. The bloody battle was just reaching its deciding moments—both players with equal chances of winning and losing—when all the sudden two disembodied hands descended from somewhere above them and grabbed those deceptively powerful bits of plastic out of their hands. What happened next could only be described as a cruel, senseless waste. Both players moved into each other's line of fire, and both of them fell to the ground, dead. Stiles gaped at the screen like he had just personally experienced one of the scenes in 'Saving Private Ryan'. "D—dad!" he spluttered. "How could—I mean why would you do that?! I was just about to destroy her!"

"Sure you were," Charlie drawled out in a sarcastic tone. "That was _exactly_ what was about to happen."

Stiles rounded on her, his eyes narrowed. "Um, yeah I was," he said, gesturing at the screen. "I totally had you on the run! You were like two seconds from dying!"

Charlie assembled her features into an artificially quizzical expression. "Yeah," she quipped abruptly, raising her eyebrows at him. "That's what I just said."

Stiles blinked at her, opening and closing his mouth in confusion. "Y—yeah, but—" All of the sudden the sheriff's head ducked down so it was directly between Charlie and Stiles, making the both of them jump with surprise. "Gah! Oh my G—God!" Stiles shouted. He slammed his fist into the arm rest and glowered at his father angrily. "Seriously?! What the hell was the point of that?!"

"Oh," the sheriff drawled out, no small amount of sarcasm in his tone. "You're looking for a point? How about this for a point? Charlie here is going home, and you're finishing all your homework for the next month, all in one sitting. How does that sound?"

"They never give us homework more than a week in advance," Charlie deadpanned.

Another exasperated sigh later, the sheriff fixed Charlie with his innocuous glare. "Well then I guess he's doing a week's worth of homework. I suggest you do the same."

Charlie quizzically narrowed her eyes at the sheriff. "Is that your way of telling me it's time for me to leave?"

"I've already told you it's time for you to leave," the sheriff replied drily.

Charlie took a moment to look back and forth between the sheriff and Stiles. The sheriff's eyebrows were raised, seemingly frozen in place into that 'I am parenting effectively' expression some adults seem to get. Stiles on the other hand was rubbing at his forehead and sighing loudly in frustration. Charlie pressed her lips together in a thin, bemused smile and nodded. "Yeah, I'm gonna—" she jerked her thumb in the direction of the door "—I'm just gonna go."

Stiles blew out a long breath, puffing out his cheeks dramatically. "Fine," he mumbled in an oddly dejected tone. "Let's go." He moved to get to his feet, but as he tried to stand his father planted a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down into an uncoordinated heap.

"The two of you have a habit of not going where you're supposed to go," he said, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "I'll walk Charlie to her car. You are going to go upstairs and sit at your desk until I am satisfied that you have finished all your work."

The sheriff finally straightened up and stared down from what felt like an impossible height. Charlie got to her feet and grabbed her messenger bag off of the floor before giving Stiles a reluctant salute. "See you tomorrow, Stilinski," she muttered.

Stiles opened his mouth to respond, but before he got the chance to say anything, Sheriff Stilinski interrupted loudly. "Yes, he will," the sheriff drawled out. "And I'm sure he's looking forward to it."

Stiles let out a small, grumbling sigh and the sheriff planted a hand on Charlie's shoulder, physically steering her towards the door. "At least I didn't break and enter this time," she said, looking up at the man with a cheeky, but hesitant grin.

"Well at least that's some progress," the sheriff sighed.

As they approached the door, the sheriff opened it for her and pushed it wide open. Charlie nodded in thanks and turned to close the door, but the sheriff stepped over the threshold as well giving her a pointed look. Charlie furrowed her eyebrows at him curiously, making him fold his arms across his chest. "Oh, I'm going to be standing here until you get in that car and disappear down the road," the sheriff assured her.

Charlie let out an exasperated groan and rolled her eyes slightly before making a beeline for where her car was parked across the street. She fished the keys out of the bottom of her messenger bag and unlocked the car before dropping into the driver's seat. After turning on the engine, she rolled down the window and shot the sheriff a sarcastic look. "Satisfied?"

"Almost."

She revved the engine a couple of times. "How about now?"

The sheriff planted his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes at her. "Are you actively trying to be a pain in the ass?"

Charlie pursed her lips and shrugged. "Usually." Sheriff Stilinski shifted on his feet, adopting a more imposing stance, so Charlie lifted a single hand to stop the onslaught. "Okay, okay, I'm going." Charlie reached down to put her car into gear. She was just about to take off down the street, but then her mind drifted back to something else—something she comprehend forgetting, even for the briefest amount of time, even with everything that was going on around her. She tugged nervously at the end of her ponytail before looking up at the man again. "I—I need to say something before I go."

The sheriff sighed in exasperation and scratched at his forehead. "Are you actually doing this right now, Charlie?" But the stern expression on his face changed as soon as the solemn one on hers. He let out another, softer sigh and leaned forwards, bracing his arm on the roof of her car so they were almost face-to-face. "What is it?"

"Isaac Lahey," she prompted.

"Yeah," the sheriff said, bobbing his head slightly. "What about him?"

"His—" she gestured at her face "—his black eye? It wasn't a lacrosse accident."

Sheriff Stilinski's eyes fell shut for a moment, and when he opened them again Charlie saw regret, but not surprise. He had been thinking along the same lines. She could tell. "You sure?" he asked, looking at her seriously. Charlie just pressed her lips together in a thin line and nodded. "How sure?"

"Fairly to pretty damn."

"You got proof?"

"Nope."

The sheriff's hand balled up into a fist and he slammed it hard against the roof of the car, making Charlie jump. "Okay," he murmured, rubbing at his forehead. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna look into it. I promise you that."

"Thank you."

With one last shared nod of mutual understanding, the sheriff rapped his knuckles against the metal of the car. "It's time for you to get going."

And, finally, Charlie agreed with him. She threw the car into the correct gear and took off down the street. Once she made it to the wooded roads, she yanked out the hair tie holding up her hair, letting it spill down on her shoulders, rolled down both of the windows, and cranked up the music. The way the wind hit her face and ripped through her locks made her feel like she could breathe again. Like she was free.

Charlie wasn't quite sure why, but for the past couple of days she felt like she had been living in a cage. It wasn't anything tangible that had suddenly boxed her in. Fear, emotion, uncertainty—they were all so much more….present. Like they were looming in the corner, lurking in the shadows, out of sight but always present. That prison they created for her—in her mind it looked a lot like the living room of the Hale house. And her jailer was the full moon that, not long ago, she had found so beautiful.

When Charlie finally pulled up in front of her house, her eyes travelled up to look at the sky above her. Beacon Hills was a pretty small town, so she could see the stars better than in most of the other cities where she had lived. There wasn't that halo of lights and thick layer of smog between her and the sky. The moon hovered above her. She wasn't sure how, but it seemed bigger in Beacon Hills than it had anywhere else, and it was almost full. It was kind of funny, really. From her perspective the thing would increase in size by less than a millimeter, and all the sudden everybody went batshit crazy.

Ripping her eyes away from the obnoxious glowing sphere above her, Charlie directed her gaze towards the other object of her worries. The house across the street. Lydia still hadn't contacted her, leaving her with that twinge of worry in the pit of her stomach, but she soon felt that swooping feeling of relief. The lights were on in her friend's room, and even from across the street Charlie could see her holding dresses up to her form and casually tossing them aside into what was probably a giant, mountainous pile.

Charlie knew that Lydia was putting in a special amount of attention when it came to choosing her clothes for the next day at school. Charlie understood how that girl's brain worked. And she knew that she was scared. That little 'episode' of hers had inspired a lot of gossip. What had happened? Was she crazy? Stuff like that. So Lydia was going to prove them all wrong. She was going to be perfect. A big part of Charlie wanted to go up those stairs and tell her that everything would be okay—that she shouldn't worry. That's what friends did, right? But it wasn't something Lydia would appreciate. Charlie being there would be a burden more than anything else. Lydia didn't like being vulnerable in front of other people. Hell, even when she was with Charlie the only time she ever let anything 'human' shine through was when there was a near-death experience or something with equally disastrous repercussions. No, Charlie being there would just stress her out more.

As she made her way up to the stairs, Charlie dragged her feet. They felt heavier somehow, like they were encased in lead. Everything about her felt heavier. And slower. Though that might have had something to do with the fact that she had hardly slept over the past few days.

To her surprise, Charlie actually followed Sheriff Stilinski's advice. As soon as she got home, she hauled herself up to her room, cranked up the music, and put all of her books on the corner of her desk in a neat stack except for that one that she opened in front of her. Charlie didn't look at a clock once that night. The only was she tracked the time was by watching the stack of books next to her slowly shrink in size. One by one she dropped them on the ground next to her chair. As it turned out, schoolwork was a pretty good distraction too. All those facts and equations were something that she _had_ to learn, so she forced herself to think about that instead of something else. At some point Mel showed up and dropped off a plate of fettuccini alfredo from _Corleone's_, but that ended up just being shoved to the back of her desk completely untouched.

To the outsider, Charlie would have just looked like she was studious. Probably a little frantic, tightly wound, and obsessive, but the studious type of obsessive. The type of obsessive that was marginally socially acceptable. Charlie wasn't sure how she fought off the sleep. She had gotten about seven or eight hours of shut-eye over the past week and her eyelids were drooping, but she fought to keep them open anyway. Some time around midnight Mel stuck her into the room and fixed Charlie with her 'parenting' stare.

"Seriously?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes at Charlie. "I know I'm supposed to be all happy that I'm the guardian of one of the only kids on the planet who is actually diligent with her studies, but this is getting ridiculous. Charlie, you've had an impossible couple of days. It's time for you to go to sleep."

"Sleep? Who needs sleep?" Charlie mumbled back, sketching out some trigonometry problems in her notebook. "Sleep is for the weak."

Mel let out a musical sigh. She moved into the room, giving that disembodied head a plushy robe-covered body and perched on the edge of the desk, hovering above Charlie as she continued to work. "You sure about that?" she asked archly. "I'm pretty sure sleep is for the people who want to avoid having a nervous breakdown." She let out a wistful sigh and stared out across Charlie's bedroom, a cloudy expression in her eyes. "I remember when I was working on my final project for design school I didn't sleep for like two weeks. I was basically running on chocolate and coffee. Then one day I was walking home with some friends and I saw the wind blow the hat off an old man's head. I started ugly crying—tears, splotchy face, flem everywhere—and I was going on and on about how we're all alone in the world." She clapped a hand on her niece's shoulder and gave her a serious look. "Trust me, Charlie. You never want to be that person."

"Is there a video tape?" Charlie asked, raising her eyebrows. "I feel like that's something I should see for myself."

"Charlie—"

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, turning back to her notebook. "I just—I…..Look, with everything that's going on, I've fallen behind in some classes. I'm just trying to catch up."

Mel didn't say anything in response. She just walked over so she was standing next to Charlie, reached down, and closed the notebook on the pencil that was still darting across the page. "I was in the middle of a problem," Charlie grumbled, flipping the notebook back open. Mel just reached back down and closed it again, making Charlie glower up at her. "I've just got a little bit more to do."

"The date in the corner of that page was for next Monday," Mel drawled out. "I'd say you're caught up enough." Then Mel did something strange. She dragged Charlie's chair back, away from the desk and got down on her hands and knees and started grappling around underneath.

"Um, Mel?" Charlie demanded, staring at her in confusion. "What the hell are you doing?"

Mel yanked hard on some sort of wire and all of the sudden the lamp on her table blinked out. Then clambering up to her feet, Mel grabbed hold of the lamp itself. "I'm taking this with me," she said, waving the lamp in Charlie's face. "And if I don't see the lights off in five minutes, I'm taking the light bulbs too."

Without another word she spun on her heel and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her with conviction. Charlie groaned loudly and let her head fall forward, landing on the now-closed math book with a heavy thunk. Reluctantly, she got up from her desk and changed into the oversized Winnie the Pooh T-shirt she used as pajamas before pulling back the covers and sliding into bed. Her eyes were aching, calling out for her to shut them and just go to sleep, but as soon as her head hit the pillow she felt the anxiety set in.

Charlie didn't want to go to sleep. The studying had been more of an excuse than anything else. She knew that she had to go to sleep eventually—she knew that. But she also knew that what was waiting for her on the other side of consciousness filled her with worry. Plus it annoyed the hell out of her. Eventually, though, she couldn't fight the exhaustion any longer. Her heavy eyelids finally shut and she drifted off to sleep.

_Warmth. That was the first thing she felt. The next thing was the wet sand underneath her feet. She wriggled her toes in it, but then a rush of cool water hit her at the ankles. As it receded, it pulled the sand from under her feet, making her sink a little to the ground. At first everything she heard sounded like it was from far away, but slowly it grew louder. Crashing waves and seagulls. She was on the beach._

_Charlie opened her eyes and found herself staring off across a wide expanse of ocean. It was a beautiful shade of turquoise—the type that couldn't be recreated by paint or even by photographs. But even as she stared out at it, she couldn't appreciate it as she should. She was waiting for the inevitable sound of doom and gloom._

"_Finally, a dream worth having," a voice announced from behind her._

_Charlie's eyes fell shut again and she swore under her breath. Doom and gloom was already here. She gritted her teeth and slowly turned around. When she opened her eyes again, she saw exactly what she expected to see. Though admittedly not how she expected to see it._

_Peter Hale. That asshole had apparently turned into a freaking fixture in the mind of Charlie Oswin. Only this time was a bit different. He was lounging in a beach chair, still wearing the exact same clothes he had died in—crimson red shirt, black dress pants, and a black leather trench coat. The only thing new was the sunglasses. And the Mai Tai in his hand, complete with the brightly colored mini-umbrella._

"_Now this," Peter said, spreading his arms out wide, "this is the type of life I should be living. You know, if I was still alive, that is. But really—" he gestured up and down his body "—you couldn't have given me some new threads? This is hardly contextually appropriate."_

_Charlie rolled her eyes and squared her shoulders against him. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," she drawled out sarcastically. "Are you feeling uncomfortable? Please excuse me while I curl up into a ball and rock back and forth, weeping with regret."_

_Peter let out a sigh and rolled his eyes in turn. "There's really no need to be so dramatic," he murmured in a patronizing tone. The two of them stood there for a moment, her glowering and him staring serenely. Eventually Peter clucked reprovingly and shook his head at her. "Honestly, Charlie, this is so unnecessary. Please, just take a seat."_

_It was if a chair had appeared out of thin air. Charlie couldn't remember there being a chair next to him before. But she couldn't remember there not being a chair either. She blinked at it in confusion. Either it had been there all along, or it had been conjured especially for her, and she had no idea which. "Oh, just sit," Peter whined loudly. "Watching you standing there all silent and stupid is pointless, not to mention irritating."_

_Her jaw twitched, but Charlie still reluctantly walked forwards and took a seat next to him. She didn't want to find the cushions of the chair comfortable or the sound of the crashing waves soothing, but she did. It almost felt like it was lulling her to sleep. A dream within a dream—what would that feel like?_

"_Mai Tai?"_

_Like the chair, the drink, its fancy glass, and its freaking pineapple wedge, it had appeared out of thin air. Peter's grating voice reached her ears one more time. Great. She couldn't catch a break even when she was asleep. "Get that thing out of my face," she growled._

"_Ugh, must you always be so combative?" he groaned loudly. "What is it with self-righteous people? They can never allow themselves to have a good time! It's a dream, just take the freaking drink! You won't be selling your soul or anything. Trust me, I'd know."_

_Charlie rolled her eyes and took the drink. "There's a difference between being self-righteous and just generally hating you."_

"_That would play a role in this situation if you did hate me," Pete replied, amusement coloring his tone. "And let's be honest, Charlie. You don't hate me. You might want to, but you don't."_

"_How exactly do you figure that?" she demanded._

"_Well, I'm here aren't I?" he said, shooting her one of those insufferable smirks. He took a long sip from his drink and waggled his eyebrows at her theatrically. "Admit it. On some level you enjoy my company."_

"_I don't enjoy your company."_

"_It's your subconscious," shot back, sounding oddly chipper. "You're the one keeping me around."_

_Charlie ground her teeth together and rolled her eyes. "Not by choice," she muttered. "Some annoying little part of you latched on during that Vulcan mind meld. Like a barnacle. Or a planters wart. I would rather be getting root canal right now."_

"_Oh, come on," Peter whined. "We have good conversations. Now what should we talk about next…" He let the sentence fade off for dramatic effect, making Charlie groan internally. This was so not how this dream was supposed to be going. She was supposed to soak up the sun, walk along the beach, maybe swim a little. It was a dream that should help her relax. But even from the grave that son of a bitch had to go and screw everything up. Shit. Being asleep was just as exhausting as being awake. _

_Peter shifted so that he was staring directly at her and readjusted his sunglasses so that he was staring at her over the rim. "What's going on with you and Stiles?"_

_Of course. Of course he would go straight to that. Charlie let out a small, controlled shriek before rounding on Peter. "Ugh! Are you serious? Are you actually serious right now?"_

"_What?" Peter muttered, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm invested."_

_Charlie's mouth dropped open and she stared at him with an expression of disbelief. "Excuse me?"_

"_You know personally," he said, pointing at himself, "I think the two of you would be great together. I mean Lydia is great, don't get me wrong, but I honestly don't understand his preoccupation with her. The two of you would be adorable together. But you gotta open yourself up a bit more, you know? Create your own possibilities."_

_Charlie made a face at him and shook her head. "Your mouth keeps making these strange sounds. You might want to see to that."_

"_You can deflect all you want, Charlie," he sighed. "It doesn't make it any less true. You should really take a long, hard look on how you approach your life."_

"_You're a guy in his thirties who's stuck in the brain of a teenage girl," Charlie drawled out. "Am I really the one who needs to be thinking about their life choices? I think it's time for you to shut up now."_

_And to her surprise, he actually did. The two of them stared out across the ocean and it was finally quiet except for the crashing waves. Still, though, Charlie didn't feel that sense of relaxation. She was just as tense as ever. The whole situation was so, undeniably wrong. Dreams were where you were supposed to decompress, where you were able to subconsciously sort through your issues so they didn't end bleeding into the waking hours. She didn't even have that luxury anymore. Asleep or awake, it was always just more of the same. Something in her had cracked that night at the Hale house, and as time ticked on she could feel that crack widening. And she blamed pretty much all of it on the asshole sitting next to her. The asshole who wouldn't shut the hell up._

_Peter let out a huff and took off his sunglasses entirely, fixing her with a serious stare. "Are you sure about that? I have a vast well of knowledge ready to be used. I am a resource, Charlie. It would be pretty small-minded of you to write me off entirely. I have many insights to share."_

"_Well that's super-duper, Peter!" Charlie exclaimed with sarcastic levity, shooting him two thumbs up. "I'm totally going to start trusting you now that you're possessing my dreams!"_

_Peter's face adopted a more pinched expression. He actually seemed to be getting a little bit irritated with her. "You're not listening to me," he said, enunciating the words carefully. "It's not me you have to worry about any more. I'm dead. Derek is the one you should be keeping an eye on. He and I have more in common than you might think."_

_Typical. She should have expected something like this was coming. That's all Peter was really—redirection, a charming smokescreen. Nothing but hair gel, a dazzling smile, and a ton of lies. Well she wasn't buying into it. Not anymore. "Really?" she drawled out, glowering at him. "What exactly to you have in common with Derek?"_

_Again, Peter let out a disappointed sigh. "Oh, come on, Charlie. You really don't know? You should understand better than most."_

"_Let's assume that I don't and move on from there."_

"_Ugh," he groaned, staring up at the cloudless sky with an expression that clearly read 'why me?' and shaking his head. "Why do other people have to be so dense? Derek's an orphan. You're an orphan, more or less. What do you want?"_

"_Right now some peace and quiet would be high on the list."_

_He let his head roll to the side so he was glaring at her. "Don't be tiresome, Charlie. Reach down deep into that broken little soul of yours and admit to yourself what you want. More than anything. You know what it is—you just have to say the words."_

_All of the sudden the soothing crash of the waves sounded like they were mocking her. She definitely wasn't calm anymore. How did he always do it? How did he always know exactly what buttons to push? He was a good con man, but that wasn't the only reason. It was because, as mush as she hated to admit it, she and Peter actually did have a few things in common. Her jaw twitched in frustration as he raised his eyebrows at her expectantly. "Family," she murmured finally. "People you belong to and who belong to you too."_

_A wide grin split across Peter's face. "Exactly," he said, poking her in the shoulder. "And what else does that sound like to you? What would be another word for that—a synonym if you will."_

_Ah. So that's where he was going with this, taking her by the hand and asking leading questions till she got to the answer he wanted her to settle on. It was a clever strategy, really. This way he could make her think she had arrived at a conclusion herself, and it made her a lot more likely to take him at his word. Well her eyes were open. And she would play along. For now. "A pack," she replied. "You think Derek's going to give people the bite? To build himself a pack?"_

_Peter jerked his head noncommittally. "It's what I did."_

_Charlie let out a frustrated sigh and then covered her face with her hands. "Yeah, but like I said before, Derek isn't you. Do you really think that's something he would do?"_

"_I'm not actually real, remember," Peter said with a serene smile. "Which means that you—" he pointed at her "—you, Charlie Oswin, are the one who's thinking it."_

_Charlie's head snapped back up to look at Peter, but he had vanished into thin air. She was alone now, just her and the waves. It was exactly what she had wanted not moments before, but she didn't feel free like she thought she would. No, she felt more caged in than ever. And the sun on her face didn't give her any warmth anymore. Now she just felt cold._

_That bastard really knew how to get in the last word._

**Okay, so this chapter might seem a bit like filler. I hope it didn't. I was initially intending for this to be combined with the next chapter, but it just ended up getting so insanely long I thought I would post it sooner rather than later.**

**Anyways, I hope you like it. There's a bit of Stiles, a bit of the sheriff, and a bit of Peter, so I hope that's enough to keep you guys satisfied for now.**

**Please review! Each one is like a small gift-wrapped package of joy. Until next time!**

**Reference:**

**-The phrase 'That sentence has too many syllables! Apologize!' is a reference to a videogame called 'Borderlands'**

**Oh! And I would also like to give a HUGE thank you to missss supernatural and artificial-paradises for the fanart! You guys are the best. You can check it out on my profile (there are links under the heading 'Stuff People Made Me!') along with the banners by Roxu! Again, thanks so much. The fact that you took the time to do something like that for me makes me insanely happy.**


	6. The Wrench in the Works

**Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.**

**Gaa! Sorry this took so long. Other than the usual work stuff and family drama, I had to cope with other certain…developments. I'm not going to put up any spoilers or anything, but let's just say I'm still reeling. Holy crap.**

**A huge thank you to nessafly, AspiredWriterr, ParalyzedInHeaven, katiesgotagun, Tania, hellohaha, WhatsGoingOn, Chicago4EVERS, TheMMMG, Daenerys86, bagginsoftheshire666, easythrowaway, Vcarp1993, Gee Brittany, Bookiee, Roxu, Devon Laurel, Undeniable Weirdness, zvc56, BrightEyes20, twSOS12345, Emmalee Adams, swanqueen4, imrid-amrad-ursul, Guest, Female whovian, SK-Scatenato, meels234, Guest, Aoibhinn, HQ16, Shes-The-Proto-Type, X23 Maximoff, fearless-dixon, Ayine, xxanniexx, CoffeeShopWriter, Guest, The City of Books, artificial-paradises, and onethousandmoths for the reviews! I love you guys so much. And a special thank you to raggedyponds for the new banner! It was insanely awesome! I love the photo-overlay, the red coloration used, and pretty much everything about it! Thank you! Also, a big thank you to BrittWitt16 for all of her stories. She has an awesome OC fic for the movie 'The Internship' that you should check out! It features none other than the lovely Dylan O'Brien!  
**

Chapter 6 – The Wrench in the Works

Charlie supposed that her situation could be considered ironic. She had been avoiding sleep for so long because she knew what was coming next. The thought of her bed gave her feelings of anxiety. Each dream she had was a reminder that there was something wrong with her. But as soon as she woke up in the morning, she didn't want to get up. Maybe it was because her brain was never really off, like having Peter in there as well was draining additional energy while she was asleep. Whatever the reason, when Charlie's alarm started blaring in the morning, the light peeking in through her curtains stung her eyes and made them ache. And that was after she hit the snooze button at least six times. Waking her up earlier than that? It was inhumane.

When the sound of 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' started blaring out of her phone, Charlie was filled with the sudden, all-consuming urge to find a time machine so she could hunt down and kill Cyndi Lauper before she wrote the song and thereby wiping it from existence. Though it was entirely possible that she was overreacting. Letting out a low, whining groan Charlie managed to reach one hand out of the tangle of covers and grappled around for her phone, knocking her water glass onto the carpeted floor in the process. Finally, her fingers found their way around that evil little piece of plastic. She almost threw it across her room when she saw that the time read 6:13 am. But then it would just start ringing again, and not only would she still be awake, she would have to get out of her bed too. That would be unacceptable. So instead she pressed the 'send' button and held it up to her ear.

"You just made a kid with leukemia very, very happy," she growled into the receiver, her voice lower and scratchier than usual from having just woken up.

"Well that was incredibly noble of me," Lydia drawled out from the other side of the phone. "How did I do that exactly?"

"Because when I sneak into your house and shave your head in the middle of the night, I'm going to be donating it to Locks of Love," Charlie replied matter-of-factly. "There are going to be little gingers running around and they'll all be so adorable. I mean just picture that. You did that. Aren't you proud?"

"Okay, one," Lydia chirped in an exasperated tone, "I can't be proud of something I haven't done yet. And two, I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

Huffing loudly, Charlie shimmied up in the bed so she was sitting and leaning against the headboard behind her. "Lydia, what's my one rule."

A loud sigh echoed into the receiver. "I don't know, Charlie," she huffed. "You've got about six hundred and thirty-two 'one rules' and honestly I don't care enough to remember all of them."

"My one rule," Charlie continued, unfazed by the borderline hostility, "my one rule is that if you wake me up before 7:00 am, I will sneak into your room at night and shave your head. Last I checked 6:12 was before 7:00. I hope you've got some camo and fatigues in your closet, because you're about to become G.I. Jane."

Charlie could practically hear the eye roll from the other end of the line. "Can we just get to the reason I called, please?"

Charlie gave a quiet harrumph and began plucking absently at the deep purple covers. "By all means. Why are you depriving me of sleep?"

"Because you're coming over to my house for breakfast," Lydia chirped. "My mom has agreed to get us scones and coffee before we go to school. She should be here around half past seven, and I expect you to be there."

"Mmph," Charlie mumbled, wiping the sleep out of her eyes. "Then why did you have to call me over an hour early? That seems more than a little bit unnecessary don't you think?"

"Not really," Lydia sighed. "Because you need to have enough time to get yourself ready for school. You really can't expect me to dress you every day."

"You don't dress me every day."

"I know," Lydia trilled. "And the school landscape suffers because of that. Which is why I'm making absolutely certain that you have enough time to pick out something that doesn't make me want to gouge out my own eyes."

For once Charlie fell silent. She pulled the phone away from her ear and glared at it for a few moments, even going so far as to stick her tongue out at it before putting it back in place. "I should have left you in that forest," she muttered with bitter sarcasm.

"Funny," Lydia replied quickly. "I was just about to say the same thing about you. Your hair would be so much more appropriate in that setting. So would your shoes for that matter."

There was short pause on the other side of the phone. But then that short silence stretched into a longer one, and Charlie couldn't help but begin to feel anxious. The gears of her sleep-addled began to turn and put two and two together. But those mental processes were interrupted again when Lydia spoke. Only this time it didn't have that characteristic confidence. It was high-pitched and slightly shaky. "Look, Charlie, are you coming over or not?"

Blinking the remaining sleep out of her eyes, Charlie straightened up in her seat. "Of—of course I'm coming over," Charlie said immediately. "You know I'm coming over. But I get at least five minutes of loud, obnoxious whining before I do."

There was another pause, and a twisting feeling of panic began to build in the pit of her stomach. She could almost swear she could hear the sound of the clock ticking on the other side of her room. But when Lydia spoke, her voice had once more found that typical prim swagger. "Yeah, I'm not going to be listening to that. Be here at 7:30."

And without so much as a 'goodbye' or 'see you later', Lydia hung up the phone, leaving Charlie with nothing but a dial tone to keep her company. Turning the phone off, she slammed it to her forehead in a 'technological facepalm' before chucking it on the bedside table. With one last reluctant groan, she threw back the covers and clambered out of bed. After picking her fallen water glass up off the floor, she dragged her feet to the shower and cranked up the hot water till steam began to fill the room. She drew a smiley face on the fogged up mirror and climbed under the cascading droplets. She wasn't sure why, but every night after Peter invaded her dreams she felt like she had to wash herself clean. But she could never fully scrub away that worry and anxiety. Especially not today.

Charlie should have noticed that there was something off from the beginning of that phone call, but the lack of sleep had dulled her powers of perception. On the exterior it had all the typical hallmarks of a Lydia Martin power play—that abrupt call, establishing her dominance in the conversation, handing out orders and expecting you to take them happily like they were candy on Halloween. Reflecting back on the conversation, though, she should have noticed all those little things that didn't fit.

First there was the fact that Lydia invited Charlie over to _her_ house. That was weird. Usually the only warning Charlie got before one of these before school hangouts was the ringing of a doorbell. Never in her life had Charlie been to Lydia's house before 10:00 am. Something was different. Which meant that something was wrong. Lydia was bringing things to her territory, to where she felt comfortable. The normal state of things was her making other people feel uncomfortable when they were on their own territory. And Lydia _never_ passed up on an opportunity to dress Charlie up. Ever.

Charlie sat in her bed for a few more moments. She let out a loud sigh and ran her hands through her tangled hair. What just happened on the phone—that slight waver in the voice and the hint of uncertainty—that was the sound of Lydia freaking out. Without another moment's hesitation, Charlie threw back the covers and clambered out of bed. Ignoring the dull ache behind her eyes crying out for sleep, she darted around, getting ready for class. Shower, brush the teeth, comb the hair—all of the appropriate boxes on the checklist were marked off. Hell, she even did as she was asked and paid special attention to her outfit. It gave her a migraine to think about clothes that much, but eventually she settled on an embellished black shirt tucked into a pair of golden-colored denim shorts, a cropped black leather jacket, some knee-high knitted, patterned black socks, and a pair of top-sider boots. Charlie stepped back and took a long look in the mirror. She was actually pretty sure Lydia would like it. Which was why she left her hair so messy. Lydia wouldn't be happy unless there was at least one thing to criticize.

When she had finished getting out her dressed, Charlie took a few moments to look at her own reflection in the mirror. Despite the polished outfit, she still looked a little frayed. Each day the bags under her eyes seemed to get just a bigger. Or maybe that was her imagination. Nobody else really seemed to notice it. Maybe it was all in her head, just like everything else these days. Swearing under her breath, Charlie went back to the bathroom and grabbed the cover-up out of one of the drawers of the vanity, dabbing on a few extra layers to blot out the exhaustion. Out of sight, out of mind.

After shoving her school books in her messenger bag, Charlie set out across the street, unsure of what she was going to find on the other side. She rang the doorbell and blew out a long breath, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet as she waited for someone to open the door. The seconds began to drag on and she could swear she could hear a ticking noise. Suddenly, the door was wrenched open, revealing not Lydia but Mrs. Martin on the other side. The second she saw Charlie the woman's face filled with a gratitude that Charlie frankly didn't really recognize.

"Charlie!" she sighed, leaning against the door a little more heavily than she probably needed to. "It was so nice of you to come on such short notice."

Charlie blinked in surprise and confusion at the abruptness of the greeting, but quickly recovered. "Y—yeah," she said with a nod. "Of course. Thanks for the breakfast."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all." Mrs. Martin smiled and stepped out of the doorway, opening it even wider so she could allow Charlie through. Charlie nodded at the woman and stepped over the threshold. She glanced around the house, a sense of apprehension filling her. She felt like something was supposed to be different now. With all the things that had happened, something must have changed. But it was exactly the same. The same aggressive neatness, the same pictures hanging, the same everything. Except for the people inside. Death—or almost dying—had a way of doing that to people.

Mrs. Martin appeared at Charlie's shoulder again, making the girl jump slightly. "She's in her room," the woman said, nodding in the direction of the staircase. "She's picking out something to wear for to school today. I told her she could stay home, but she seemed pretty insistent on it."

"Yeah," Charlie said with what was almost a laugh. "Lydia is determined when it comes to pretty much every decision she makes. Except clothes."

"Except clothes," Mrs. Martin agreed. She looked up the stairway with a concerned expression before turning back to Charlie. "I'm going to go get the two of you breakfast now," she murmured absently. "Do you think you could make sure she's okay while I'm away?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, nodding earnestly. "Yeah, of course."

"Thank you," Mrs. Martin said with a relieved smile, placing a grateful hand on Charlie's arm. "I'll call the both of you down when I have breakfast set up."

With a nod of thanks, Charlie ran up the stairs, but that twisting sensation of anxiety in the pit of her stomach flared up again. Of course Mrs. Martin was still concerned for her daughter—it made sense that she was still worried—but right now it just confirmed for Charlie that her friend was not okay. And Charlie really needed Lydia to be okay. The closer she got to the room, the slower she moved, worried about what she might find on the other side. Lydia was strong—she knew that—but she was also unpredictable. There was no way of being sure what would be on the other side of the door. As she closed in, Charlie lifted her hand and knocked gently.

"Come in!" Lydia's voice proclaimed loudly.

The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion, like the lead-up to the big reveal in a horror movie. Charlie slowly reached down for the doorknob and turned it, gently pushing it open. The door swung open to reveal the contents inside. Her mouth fell open at the sight of what was probably the neatest version of chaos she had ever seen. Virtually every surface in the room was covered in clothes, but not in the way Charlie's room was with pairs of jeans flung over chairs or on a pile next to her bed. No, these clothes were arranged carefully, almost reverently. The door squeaked loudly as it swung open, making Lydia look up at her. Charlie wasn't sure if 'rolling your eyes in relief' was a thing before, but it definitely was now.

"Charlie—thank God!" Lydia sighed out. She turned towards her friend, holding up a dress in each hand. "I'm probably going to regret asking you this, but which one do you think makes the better 'post near death experience' ensemble?" She lifted one and then the other, weighing her options.

Charlie just stood there stupidly for a few moments. It was like her brain was on a delay. "You're—you're asking me for advice on clothes? Clothes that you intend on wearing? Today?"

"Yeah….." Lydia drawled out, looking at Charlie like she was a little bit of an idiot. "I'm surprised by it too. Now can you make your mouth start talking about things that are relevant, please?"

Charlie shook off the surprise and looked at the two options. One of them was an elegant but casual little black number that would look really good on her. Unfortunately, it would also reinforce the fact that Lydia's skin was still paler than usual. On the other hand, literally, there was a magenta form-fitting dress. It would bring out the little color in the girl's cheeks and the bold color would project confidence. Not something that Lydia usually needed any help with, but on a day like this one it couldn't hurt. "That one," she said, gesturing at the magenta dress.

Pursing her lips, Lydia turned to her floor-length mirror. She tossed the black dress to the side and held the magenta one's hanger up at her neck, pressing the fabric against her form and swaying side to side a bit. "Hm," she murmured, narrowing her eyes at her own reflection. "I never thought we'd see the day, Charlie, but I actually agree with you." She turned to Charlie and let her eyes rake up and down the other girl's form, a critical look in her eyes. "And by some miracle I approve of what you're wearing. We're making progress." But then Lydia's eyes lingered on Charlie's hair. "Except for your hair," she continued. "It looks like you got into a fight with a bird. And Charlie? The bird won."

Blowing out a long breath, Charlie carefully moved aside one of the piles of clothes on the bed making enough room for her to sit down. "So what's with all this?" she asked, waving her hand around the room. "It's kind of a lot of effort for today. I mean everything you own is nice. You could pick pretty much anything."

At that, Lydia's eyes fell shut and her jaw twitched violently, like she was trying to repress an insane amount of frustration. "Ugh," she sighed, shaking her head at Charlie. "I swear to God you never listen to me! What did I tell you! School is a battlefield. You have to take every opportunity you have to make yourself the winner!"

"Okay…." Charlie drawled out, nodding without knowing exactly what the hell it was she was talking about. "But what are we winning exactly?"

A pitying look crossed Lydia's face as she stepped towards the girl. "Oh dear sweet Charlie," she murmured, patting Charlie's cheek in the most condescending way possible. "If you still have to ask, you'll never know."

Charlie wrinkled her nose at Lydia, giving her a weird look. "Do you have some popularity manifesto hidden away somewhere? And if the answer is yes is it a Word document saved on your laptop or did you have it made into a leather-bound book that you keep hidden under your mattress."

Lydia smirked a bit, peeking at Charlie from under her eyelashes. "How did you know about that?" she demanded with false innocence. Charlie let out a loud groan and collapsed backwards on the piles of clothes behind her, only to receive a definitive smack over the head. "Stop wrinkling my clothes," Lydia growled, prodding Charlie with her finger until the girl was back in the sitting position.

Charlie huffed loudly, blowing some stray hairs out of her face, and looked up at Lydia. The girl was gnawing on her lip in a way that was entirely uncharacteristic. "Lydia, you don't have to do this," Charlie said quietly. "Not yet anyway. You were mauled by a wild animal like five days ago. Nobody's going to blame you for taking a couple more days off."

"Ugh," Lydia drawled with yet another roll of her eyes. "You sound just like my mother."

"Maybe your mother's right," Charlie suggested.

"It's already decided," Lydia said, waving her hand dismissively. She disappeared into her bathroom for a few moments and when she reappeared again, the plushy robe was gone and she was wearing what looked to be a fairly constricting dress. She made a beeline for the mirror and began smoothing the fabric down against her skin, doing a little twirl and inspecting her appearance. She gave herself a nod of approval and grabbed the mascara from her makeup kit. "So what's going on with you and Allison?" she asked in that casual tone she had that was anything but casual.

Charlie's mouth dropped open and she froze for a second, her ability to speak completely evaporating. "Uh—wh—what are you talking about exactly?" Charlie asked. She cleared her throat awkwardly and scratched at the back her neck, making Lydia smirk.

"Oh, come on, Charlie," she said with a roll of the eyes. "It's so obvious. I haven't seen the two of you in the same room since the dance—you haven't visited me together. Plus when I mention you to Allison she gets that weird, furrowed-eyebrow, constipated look she gets when something's bothering her. When I mention her to you, you just look super-guilty." She stopped applying the mascara long enough to shoot Charlie a loaded, suspicious glance. "So what happened?" she pressed. "Did you make out with McCall too?"

Any sensations of guilt immediately changed to something nearing 'disgust'. Or at the very least 'perturbed'. At the suggestion, Charlie gagged slightly and stuck out her tongue. "What? Ugh, no! Gross! Why would you even think that?"

"Because the only time Allison's ever gotten pissed at me was after that little episode," Lydia said casually, returning to her mascara. "I figured it had to be something like that."

"Well, it wasn't," Charlie said, still frowning at the thought and shuddering visibly. "And now I feel like I have to brush my teeth. Or wash my mouth out with acid. Or both."

"Always so dramatic," Lydia clucked. She grabbed her lip gloss out of her purse and began to apply it in front of the mirror. She rubbed them together to spread the gloss and smacked them loudly before turning back to Charlie. "You're not going to tell me what happened?"

"No, I'm not," Charlie said. It was the honest answer. Because anything else she said was going to be a lie. And frankly she didn't have the brain power to come up with a lie that was plausible at this point.

A disappointed but unsurprised expression crossed Lydia's face. She wrinkled her nose slightly and sighed loudly. "Fine," she chirped loudly. "Fine. Neither of you want to contribute or play along? I guess I'll have to take care of it all myself."

"Take care of what?" Charlie asked, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion.

"This whole ridiculous fight thing," Lydia replied primly. "It just…it's not going to work for me. Scheduling you both in at different times is so completely beyond ridiculous. I really don't give a crap what's going on, but I'm going to fix it."

"Really?" Charlie snorted. "How exactly do you think you're going to fix it?"

Lydia applied a little more lipstick and smacked them together with a resounding 'pop'. "Well for a start I told Allison to meet us at the front of the school so we could get a little bit of a chat in before class," she smirked.

Charlie let out a disbelieving snort and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Allison agreed to that?"

Lydia gave a prim shrug and jerked her head to the side noncommittally. "I may or may not have left out the 'you' part of 'us'," she replied easily.

A feeling of cold dread swooped through the pit of Charlie's stomach. Hell, it wasn't just that generalized feeling of regret. She actually felt straight-up nauseous. Charlie wasn't used to orchestrating reconciliations for the same reason she wasn't used to getting into fights. She had no reason to in the first place. Letting out a quiet groan, she rubbed at her forehead. A hand descended from somewhere above her and clapped a comforting hand on her shoulder. Charlie raised her head, glaring at the perpetually smug Lydia. "I'm the one who's supposed to be making you feel better, remember?" she growled.

"Since when have I played by your little rules?"

Charlie collapsed back on top of the piles of Lydia's clothes for a second time, this time ignoring the orders to 'get her adorable, lazy ass up'. But she just stayed lying down, closed her eyes, and whined about needing more sleep after the unceremonious wakeup call. Huffing in frustration, Lydia grabbed one of the numerous articles of clothing lying around and chucked it at Charlie's head, making it land squarely on her eyes. Sighing happily, Charlie placed her hands behind her head as a makeshift pillow. "You realize that you just helped me out, right?" she yawned loudly. "You've blocked out all the light and now I can go back to sleep."

That self-satisfied feeling only lasted a few more seconds, though, because all of the sudden something very solid collided with her stomach. Charlie let out a sad little 'oomph' noise and squeaked in surprise. "There," Lydia's voice proclaimed, sounding highly satisfied with herself. "Is that helping too?"

After letting out a loud groan, Charlie yanked what turned out to be one of Lydia's dresses from her face and sat up, finding a high-heeled stiletto sitting on the bed next to her. "Seriously?" she demanded, chucking the shoe back in Lydia's direction. "You could have killed me with that thing! The heel qualifies as a deadly weapon!"

"Stop whining," Lydia sighed, applying the last little bit of makeup. She stepped back from the mirror and did a bit of a twirl, before smiling happily. "And that, my dear Charlie, is how you make an entrance."

"Not my style," Charlie replied with a shrug, staring absently at the ceiling. "I prefer explosions going on in the background while walking away. Cool people don't look at explosions." The only response she got was another solid object colliding with her stomach. "Ugh, seriously?"

Sitting up in the bed, Charlie chucked the shoes back in Lydia's general direction and the clattered to the ground a few feet away from the girl. Lydia wasn't fazed at all. She didn't even flinch while she was fixing her hair. Cool, calm, collected, unflappable Lydia. Almost icy Lydia. She always had that hard shell of an exterior, making it virtually impossible for you to see what was actually going on underneath. Usually Charlie was okay with that—it wasn't like she was a prime example of transparency herself—but now it was almost infuriating. Mostly because that shell was cracking a little bit. It wasn't much—not enough for most people to notice—but Charlie did. It was just enough to give her a hint, but there was no clear picture. Charlie still didn't know what was going on with her friend, and that scared the crap out of her.

Charlie scooted forwards so she was perched on the edge of the bed, balling up the fabric of the comforters in her fists. She gnawed on her lip for a moment before building up the resolve to speak up again. "So…" she drawled out, hesitant to approach the topic. "How are you feeling?"

Lydia shrugged her shoulders primly and fluffed her hair a little more. "Kind of hungry," she muttered, spinning around to face Charlie. "My mom really should have gotten back with the scones by now. She's probably flirting with the barista—he's cute and _almost_ age-appropriate for her."

Pressing her lips together in a thin line, Charlie raised her eyebrows challengingly. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Yeah, Charlie," Lydia drawled. "I know that's not what you meant."

"Then why didn't you answer it?"

"Because I have answered it," she snapped. Her eyes fell shut for a moment and she rubbed at her forehead as she tried to regain her composure. When she finally looked up again, she was wearing a tight-lipped, uncomfortable smile. "Look, Charlie, I've answered it about a thousand times. I've told my mom, I've told my dad, I've told the doctors, and when we get to school I'm going to have to tell Allison when she asks me and plus having to deal with everybody else…" She folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her lower lip in a pout. "Can we just forget about all the crap going on and have 'Lydia and Charlie time'? Please?"

Once again, the icy hand of guilt bitch-slapped Charlie straight across the face. She couldn't even come close to understanding what Lydia was going through right now. It was all so freaking hypocritical. Here she was pumping Lydia for all the information and tiny details she could get. And yes it was because she was worried about her friend—it was more about that than anything else—but it was also so that she could piece together more information with the full moon approaching. Meanwhile Lydia was looking for all sorts of answers. And there Charlie was with all of them, and not saying a damn thing. It was official. She was a terrible person.

Swallowing heavily, Charlie nodded in agreement. "Yeah," she nodded. "Yeah, of course. I mean, did you almost die? I can't even remember that far back."

That crack in Lydia's façade stayed there long enough for her to give a smile of appreciation Charlie didn't deserve before her face readopted that same mildly dissatisfied expression it usually had. "Good," she chirped.

It was a few more minutes before Mrs. Martin got back with the breakfast. The conversation as the sat around the table, munching on scones, was ridiculously normal. Clothes, boys, gossip, classes—all those things that they used to talk about seemed a little silly to talk about now, in the context of everything that was going on. But it was what Lydia needed right now, and if there was one thing Charlie was good at, it was talking.

Before long it was time for them both to go. They made their way to the front, but as they reached the door, Lydia's mother swooped in from nowhere and wrapped Lydia in a huge hug that lasted a lot longer usual. That delay gave Charlie a bit of a head start, letting her run across the street and clamber into her car. And for the first time, Charlie managed to beat Lydia to school. So she got to be the one leaning against the car, arms crossed, staring expectantly over her sunglasses as she waited for the other to arrive. Lydia only arrived a few minutes after Charlie, but Charlie made sure it looked like she had been waiting for hours. Lydia's Beetle pulled into the parking lot a few spots from over her eyes. Apparently she had already caught sight of Charlie as she rolled in, because as she climbed out of the car, she was already rolling her eyes.

"What the hell took you so long?" Charlie demanded, smirking slightly.

Lydia gave her a withering look as she came to a stop in front of Charlie, raising her eyebrows. "Don't look so smug, Charlie," she said with a sinister sort of sweetness. "You're going to get premature wrinkles around your mouth." She extended a single finger, lifting it to Charlie's face so she could push the sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. She took a step back and folded her arms across herself, looking supremely pleased with herself. "And anyways, you're the one stuck waiting for me in the school parking lot like a lost puppy. You might as well be holding a boom box over your head as you stare longingly, waiting for my approach."

"Nah…." Charlie drawled out, wrinkling her nose slightly at the thought. "Boom boxes are way too heavy. My arms would get tired. I could hold my iPhone over my head while it blasts music, but I don't think it would have the same degree of impact."

But it didn't look like Lydia was paying any attention to Charlie. Her eyes had slid past to something over Charlie's shoulder. Charlie herself turned around and followed her friends gaze until her eyes fell on Allison who was standing near the entrance and looked like she was searching for someone. Lydia threw a hand in the air and waved enthusiastically. "And there's my other lost puppy."

Allison caught sight of Lydia and returned the wave, but seemed to falter a bit when she saw Charlie standing there was well. Shit. This was going to be uncomfortable wasn't it?

Lydia flashed Charlie a satisfied smile and inclined her head in Allison's direction. "Come on, Charlie. Let's go say hello."

Without another moment's hesitation, Lydia marched forward leaving Charlie feeling a wee bit stranded and alone. Her hand clutched at the strap of her messenger bag, the knuckles turning white as the bone strained against the skin. Yup. This was definitely going to be uncomfortable. Deep breath. Charlie sucked the cold air into her lungs, holding it there for a solid ten seconds before expelling it from her body. Okay. Time to nut up or shut up.

By the time Charlie made to the pair, Allison had thrown her arms around Lydia, pulling the girl into a tight hug. Charlie just stood there next to them, kind of shut out of the interaction. She felt a little bit like an intruder on the whole thing. "Okay, Allison," Lydia's muffled voice said as she weakly patted Allison on the back. "This is nice and all, but I do still have like sixty stitches. So consider me hugged."

The levels of awkward Charlie was feeling increased with each second that ticked by until the hug finally broke. Except then it didn't get any better. Actually, it got worse. Because now she and Allison didn't have a reason to not talk to each other. Allison's eyes flickered to Charlie for about half a second before turning back to Lydia. "You know, I kind of can't believe that you're actually here," she said, raising her eyebrows at the red-head. "This is a whole new level of stubbornness. Even for you."

"Please," Lydia chirped, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Like you guys could survive more than a day without me."

"So how are you feeling?" Allison asked urgently.

Lydia glanced at Charlie out of the corner of her eye with a look that clearly spelled 'I told you so' before flashing Allison a smile. "Totally fine," she replied easily. "Just—" she shook her head and let out a sigh "—just ready for all the weird crap to be over with." She glanced back and forth between Allison and Charlie, raising her eyebrows expectantly. "Aren't you guys going to say 'hi' to each other?"

Allison's mouth fell open and her eyes widened slightly like she was uncertain what to do, but under Lydia's poignant stare she eventually turned to Charlie. "Uh…um…h—hi," she stammered out, giving a weird wave.

"Hey," Charlie replied, giving one long, slow wave in response.

Lydia's eyes continued to dart back and forth between the other two girls, her eyebrows fixed in the raised position and waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, she let out a loud, slightly contemptuous scoff and rolled her eyes. "Wow, you guys," she muttered. "That was really emotional. I think I might be tearing up a little bit."

When even that didn't elicit a warmer reaction, Lydia sighed and linked one of her arms through Charlie's left one and the other through Allison's right and practically frog-marched them in the direction of the school's main entrance. As they moved, Charlie noticed the eyes of several passersby lingering on them for a while, but she didn't give any indication of it.

"So really," Allison pressed as they made their way to the front doors. "How are you feeling?"

"I never knew people paying so much attention to me could be such a pain in the ass," Lydia groaned. "I'm fine. I'm healing fine. I just remember being in the hospital and then all the sudden I'm standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere with Charlie gawking at me with this concussed look on her face."

"You really don't remember anything?" Allison insisted. She spared Charlie a concerned glance, like she was looking for confirmation.

"They called it a fugue state," Lydia grumbled, clearly dissatisfied with the medical services of Beacon Hills. "Which is basically a way of saying 'We have no idea why you can't remember running through the woods naked for two days.'" Then she abruptly unlinked her arms from Allison's and Charlie's spinning around to face them, bringing the group to a stop right before the doors. "But personally, I don't care," she continued with a wide smirk. "I lost nine pounds!"

Charlie let out a long, low whistle and rocked back on her heels. "Nine pounds? Dude, that's even better than Mel's week long juice fast. Well actually it was more like five days. She found me eating a Snickers and started screaming about me being insensitive until I cooked her a steak. She dug into that thing like she was auditioning for the role of 'lion mauling wildebeest' in a Discovery Channel documentary."

A delicate snort emanated from somewhere next to her where Allison was staring intently at her shoes. Lydia clucked disapprovingly and rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Charlie, for that glorious mental image. It's exactly what I wanted to start my day thinking about."

Confidence. It usually seeped out of every single one of Lydia's pores and formed a cloud around her like perfume. Charlie was actually pretty sure it was some sort of neurotoxin or something that lulled people into a hypnotic state, making them predisposed to be in awe of her. But this time there was a little too much of it there. It seemed like it was forced. Charlie forcibly held back her reaction, knowing it would only lead to a frustrated Lydia, but Allison picked up on the difference too. "Are you sure ready for this?" she asked, eyeing Lydia with concern.

"Please," Lydia said with a smirk. "It's not like my aunt's a serial killer."

With that parting shot, Lydia spun on her heels and burst through the door with as much drama as possible. Charlie glanced at Allison out of the corner of her eye. The girl seemed to be shell-shocked, thrown by the casual and glib reference to her aunt. Again Charlie had to force back the question she wanted so badly to ask. 'Are you okay?' But it didn't look like she would get a straight answer out of anybody today. Allison noticed she was being watched and blinked in surprise. She and Charlie made eye contact for about half a second before Allison shook her head, reassembling her thoughts, and strode through the door as well.

Great. That was fan-freaking-tastic. Usually it was just Charlie that was being all cagey and emotionally repressed, but now everybody was. Jesus, was she usually this annoying? She would have to issue a blanket apology to everybody. Especially Stiles. He always seemed to be the one who was on the receiving end of her inability to express human emotion. It kind of made her wonder why he bothered with getting her to open up in the first place.

Taking one deep breath, Charlie strengthened her resolve and strode forwards and shoved her way through the door as well. She didn't get far, though, stopping short and narrowly avoiding a three-car pile-up of her, Allison, and Lydia. Somehow in ten seconds between when Lydia had strode through the door and she had, pretty much the entirety of the student body had come to a stop and were staring at the three of them. Some of them looked curious, some of them looked mildly afraid, and a whole lot of them looked smug. But they all had one thing in common—they looked expectant, like they were waiting for something to happen. For Lydia to rip off all her clothes and run back into the woods for example.

Shit. This was very, very not good. Lydia just stood there, frozen like a deer in headlights. Even from behind her Charlie could see her visibly twitching under the degree of attention. Hell, she was almost trembling. Charlie knew she was probably supposed to do something, but she wasn't quite sure what. It wasn't like there was a manual for this type of situation. Her initial instinct was to yell at them all to fuck off before she cut somebody, but something told her that wouldn't exactly help the situation. The three of them stood there, unsure of what to say or do. That is until Allison to a small step towards Lydia. "Maybe it's the nine pounds," she mused quietly.

Somehow that one dry comment was enough break Lydia out of her little fear-induced trance. Her posture straightened, she jutted her chin out, and she flipped her hair over her shoulder before striding forwards into the crowd, her gait demanding that they move aside and let her through. And they did. A giant grin split across Charlie's face as she watched Lydia go. Sure there might be more trepidation than envy in people's eyes as she brushed past them, but, as per usual, she left a cloud of awesome in her wake. You might knock Lydia Martin down every once in a while, but she was never out of the game.

"Well that was interesting," Charlie murmured, more to herself than anybody else. But just because she was talking to herself didn't mean there wasn't a response.

"You can say that again."

Charlie's head snapped around and she found Allison standing next to her, staring after Lydia with a satisfied smile. She blinked in surprise at the sound of the other girl's voice. Those were pretty much the first words she had voluntarily directed at Charlie in days. Charlie shifted slightly on her feet so that she was facing Allison directly. "Can I?"

The somber look returned to Allison's face and she bit down on her lip. But she didn't leave. She stayed. And that finally gave Charlie the chance to say what she needed to say.

"I'm not going to apologize for lying to you."

The sentence came out a little more bluntly than Charlie intended, but it did have the desired effect. Allison's eyes snapped to Charlie's. She was wearing an expression that was a strange mixture of curiosity and offense. Charlie took a deep breath, steeling her resolve before the words started spilling out of her.

"I'm not going to apologize," she repeated with an ironically apologetic shrug. "I'm not. I mean what was I supposed to say to you? 'Hey, Allison, your boyfriend is acting super-weird because werewolves exist and, by the way, he's one of them.' You didn't even know about werewolves then! And you could have made some off-hand, throwaway comment to your dad or worse, to Kate, and then what would have happened?" She let out a heavy sigh and ran her hands down her face. "I didn't choose them over you, I chose Scott's _life_ over your peace of mind. Yeah. I did that. But I'm not sorry I for the choice I made. It was the right thing to do and I'd do it all over again."

Charlie couldn't translate the expression on Allison's face. Maybe it was pain, maybe it was hurt, but it was definitely too late for Charlie to stop now. "I am sorry for something, though," Charlie continued. "The fact that I had to make a choice in the first place. I am sorry for that. It—it's not like I enjoyed it. I'd see you confused and hurt and…It would make me want to puke, okay? Like full-on, disgusting barf-fest. Then I got used to it. And somehow….somehow that made it even worse. It was like all of the lying physically ate its way into my bones and….and became me. And I hate it. God I hate it. And even now I still have to keep doing it! I look at Lydia and..." Charlie wrapped her arms around her waist and stared up at the lights above her for a second before lowering her eyes back down to Allison again. "That's it. That's my truth. You can either forgive me or not—that's your call. But, Allison, I really, really hope you do. Because I miss you. And I never miss anyone."

By the time Charlie finished, Allison's eyes were wide and her mouth was open, but no words were coming out. Okay. Charlie knew when it was time to admit defeat. Her shoulders slumped forwards as a wave of disappointment crashed into her. "Alright," she said finally, nodding at Allison. "I'm—I'm just going to go. I guess I'll see you later. Or not. It's up to you."

Charlie moved to follow Lydia into the crowd, but as she turned to ascend those stairs she stopped short, the soles of her shoes squeaking against the laminate tiles as she did so. The backdrop of the school had disappeared, along with the sun and any sense of safety Charlie still had. She was in the dark, surrounded by trees, with dead leaves instead of those crappy tiles under her feet. Oh, crap. It was happening again.

Everything in Charlie's body was screaming at her to run—to run until she was sure she was safe—but she stayed rooted in place, clutching at the strap of her messenger bag. This wasn't real. None of it was real—it couldn't be real. It was all in her head, like the fire and the screams before. It was all a hallucination. She was standing in the doorway to the school, and if she started running, she would probably collide with a set of lockers and break her nose. But it all looked so _real._ And then she saw it. That one set of red eyes, glowing in the dark and slowly circling around her. And it was getting closer. Even though her brain knew it was fake, her heart began to beat faster and her breaths coming out quicker and shallower.

"Charlie?"

The hand on her shoulder made Charlie twitch violently. She blinked and when she opened her eyes again, everything was back to normal again. Charlie let out a long, shaky breath and rubbed at her forehead, trying to get rid of the headache that was threatening to split her skull open.

"Charlie, are you okay? You looked like you were about to pass out or something."

It took a few seconds for Charlie to realize that the echoing voice and the hand on her shoulder both belonged to Allison. Charlie gave a small intake of breath and shrugged away the hand, taking a wobbly step backwards. "Y—yeah," Charlie stammered. She kept blinking over and over, forcing the image she was looking at to normalize. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit of a head rush." Her chest hurt from trying to regulate her breathing. Quick, short breaths—that's what she needed or she was about to spin out. It felt like the room was shrinking, the walls closing in tighter and tighter, about to crush her. She needed out. She needed out right now. Her eyes began darting around frantically, looking for some sort of escape. Luckily enough for her she was still standing right next to a giant set of doors. "I need to get some air."

Without another word Charlie marched to the doors, still feeling a little woozy. She was pretty sure she heard Allison call out after her, but her brain didn't register it until she was already running through the parking lot. And she didn't stop till she was finally alone, almost colliding with the chain-link fence that separated the school from the lacrosse field. She wound her fingers in the cold metal, using it to hold herself up, and rested her forehead against the surface. The links dug into her skin, probably causing a weird pattern of indentations, but she didn't care.

What was the hell was happening to her? What had Peter done to her? Scott had been through the exact same thing she had. It had been traumatizing and immensely painful, but it hadn't been anything like this. He didn't have hallucinations or borderline nervous breakdowns in public places. But then again he wasn't human. He was built to withstand this kind of thing. Her? She was one of the puny humans. She was a bag of brittle bones and flimsy skin. All the snarkiness and witty comebacks in the world weren't going to protect her. There was no way of telling what this was going to do to her.

The knotted scars where he had shoved his claws into the back of her neck were tingling like an electrical shock that was just on the wrong side of painful. The sudden wave of adrenaline was slowly fading away and letting her breathe properly, but the hand of panic was still clutching her throat. And those memories still existed in her head. Her stomach clenched when she realized what she had been looking at in that forest. It was the night Laura Hale had been killed. Only it wasn't Laura Hale standing there. It was her. She was the one in the dark, waiting to be killed.

Panic, fear, frustration, anger—all those things that came with uncertainty bore down on her all at once. Her fingers tightened around the links until the metal began to cut into her fingers. And then she shook it. Hard. "Damn it!" She ground her teeth together and shook it again. "Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

The shaking of the fence soon turned into the kicking of the chain link fence. It was pathological, and maybe a little bit crazy, but she needed this. All of those conflicting emotions building up inside her and those secrets she couldn't bring herself to talk about—she needed an outlet for that. And for some inexplicable reason, abusing the chain-link fence seemed like the way to go. Eventually her arms began to ache and again she was left clinging to the thing, taking deep breaths. She actually felt better. That is, until someone cleared their throat behind her.

Charlie whipped around, her eyes wide with surprise, and found herself staring at none other than Isaac Lahey. He was fully dressed in his lacrosse gear, a gigantic number 14 spelled across his chest, and he was holding his helmet under his arm. "H—hey, Isaac," she stammered uncomfortably. She lifted her hand to wave awkwardly at him but the thought better of it and lowered it back down. "What, uh, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at lacrosse practice right now?"

"Um, yeah," Isaac replied. "I was." He lifted his helmet in the air to show her as some sort of evidence. "I just—I heard you and came to see what was going on."

"You heard me?" Charlie demanded, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. "All the way from the lacrosse field?"

"I have—" Isaac pointed at his ear "—I have really good hearing."

"Apparently."

The two of them stood there staring at each other for a few moments. It was a bizarre sort of standoff. Each of them was waiting for the other to say something, but neither of them had any idea of what to say. Then Isaac's eyes slid past Charlie to the chain-link fence and she was left feeling incredibly flustered. She glanced at the fence over her shoulder and let out an awkward laugh. "R—right," she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the fence. "That. That was me….I've just been having a really long day."

"School hasn't even started yet," Isaac shot back.

"Exactly," Charlie nodded. "So it's going to be getting even longer."

Isaac gave her a soft, oddly confident smile and nodded in understanding. "Hey, I get it," he murmured, gesturing to himself. "The fence probably had it coming. I mean, I know I've never liked it myself. Except I usually think about scaling it and getting the hell out of here. Or bursting straight through it like the Kool-Aid man. But this…this works too."

Charlie grimaced and collapsed back against said fence, rubbing at her forehead. "That was a pretty weird thing to walk in on, wasn't it?"

Isaac made a face and shook his head in an entirely unconvincing way. "Nah, I'm sure you were doing something totally normal. Like performance art."

"Since when is performance art normal?" Charlie scoffed.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then his eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Good point." He lapsed into silence and scratched absently at the back of his neck. "So I hear you found Lydia," he said suddenly. "Congratulations. Uh, I mean I'm glad to hear that you did. I know you were really worried about her. And she's okay, so that's good. Right?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. The words came out a little too loud and a little too quick, making Isaac give her a suspicious look. "Yeah, no, she's fine. It's such a relief to have her back."

Isaac narrowed his eyes at her. "But you don't exactly look relieved, do you? You're still worried about her."

He wasn't asking a question, he was making a statement of fact. And for some reason it made Charlie feel slightly uncomfortable. "I'll always be worried about Lydia," she muttered. "No matter how much she says she's fine, I'll still worry about her anyway. It's just…..how the friendship thing goes I guess."

"And how are you doing?" Isaac asked.

"I wasn't the one who was mauled by a wild animal," she replied. "Everything's peaches and gravy over here. I'm totally fine."

"And is there anyone worrying about you anyway?" he returned, an inscrutable expression on his face.

Charlie frowned at him. That was a strange question to ask. Isaac never really said the thing you would outright expect him to say, he was a strange combination of shy and incredibly blunt, but this was a step further than usual. Hell, everything about this interaction was weird. She didn't pretend to know Isaac all that well—hell, they had officially met less than a week ago—but he had always been someone who was scared of his own shadow. If someone moved to quickly or surprised him, he flinched. She didn't see much of that right now.

"Nobody needs to be," she said, eyeing him warily.

"You sure about that?" he said, nodding at the fence she had spent the last few moments beating up. He took a few steps towards her, and Charlie felt her heart rate speed up a little bit. He looked genuinely concerned, but the way he was acting made her nervous. "Look," he said as he came to a stop in front of her. "The other day you told me to come and find you if I ever needed to talk. I wanted to let you know it's a two-way street. If you need to talk to someone, I'm here. I'm a surprisingly insightful person."

Charlie bit down on the inside of her cheek and nodded at him, again feeling oddly suspicious. "Thanks, Isaac," she murmured, her voice a little higher pitched than usual. "I appreciate that."

The smile that covered his face next seemed genuine enough, but Charlie still didn't trust it. "My pleasure. Anything to keep you from getting arrested for vandalism of school property. I'd be pretty bummed if you were expelled."

There was something wrong here. There was something that just didn't fit. Looking at Isaac was like looking at one of the puzzles in the Highlights magazines they kept in doctors' offices for the kids. They would have these two pictures next to each other with a certain amount of differences for you to find. And right now she felt like she was staring at two Isaacs—the one from today and the one from a few days ago—and trying to pick out the differences. Then she found one. And it was one that freaked that hell out of her. Because as soon as she noticed it, everything else seemed to slide into place. Her conversation with Peter, the twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach, that thing that seemed out of place with Isaac, him hearing her all the way from the lacrosse field—all of it made sense. If she was right. But of course she was right.

"What happened to your black eye?"

At that point Isaac took a step back, frowning in confusion. "What, uh, what do you mean?"

This time it was Charlie's turn to take a step towards him, but it wasn't comforting out even menacing. It was accusing. "Your black eye," she repeated. "It's gone. What happened?"

Isaac let out an uncomfortable laugh and scratched at the back of his neck. "Um, what usually happens to black eyes," he explained. "It healed."

"That quickly?"

"I—I'm a fast healer," he stammered back. "And anyways I told you it wasn't that bad. Why does this matter exactly?"

"Nope," Charlie said, popping the 'p' and ignoring Isaac's protests. "It takes black eyes about two weeks to heal and yours was fresh two days ago. There's no way it healed that quickly. It's physiologically impossible."

"Wha—how do you know that?" Isaac asked, giving her a strange look. He was getting a bit fidgety, nervous. "Who knows stuff like that?" Charlie didn't answer the question. Instead she grabbed at the messenger bag slung over her shoulder and began rooting around inside while Isaac stood by. "What are you doing?" Isaac demanded.

Finally, Charlie found what she was looking for. She snatched her cell phone out of her back and toggled through all the applications until she found the camera. Turning on the flash function, she held it up to Isaac's face, making him stumble backwards a bit in surprise. "Whoa!" he said, throwing his hands in front of his face. "I ask again, what the hell are you doing?"

"Testing a theory," Charlie mused under her breath. She hit the 'capture' button and waited impatiently for the millisecond it took for the photo to appear on the screen. She couldn't say what she saw surprised her, but it sure as hell pissed her off. There was what looked like a lens flare right around Isaac's eyes. She let out a bitter snort and shook her head down at the image. "Well that's just great," she spat. "That's just fan-freaking-tastic. It's just the cherry on top of this giant week of suck."

Isaac circled around her and peered over her shoulder at the image. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, his confusion mounting. "What are we looking at?"

Her response didn't come immediately. She needed to put the screwed up jigsaw puzzle that was her brain back into place first. She needed to make herself understand what was going on. And when she did, Charlie let out another, slightly demented laugh and turned around to face him directly. "Well, Isaac, I'm talking about the fact that you're a werewolf. That's what I'm talking about."

Isaac was pretty pale to begin with, but as soon at the words left her mouth it looked like he went about three shades whiter. "S—sorry, what did you just say? What are you talking about? I'm a what?"

"Well if you don't know, then you're really screwed," she muttered under her breath.

"You—you can't know that," Isaac stammered out, backing away from her a bit. "You're not supposed to know that—nobody's supposed to know that!"

"I mean you couldn't have been turned more that a few days ago and the full moon is tonight," Charlie continued to rant, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. "That gives you zero time to prepare yourself for what's going to happen, and it's not going to be pretty. What the hell was Derek thinking?!"

She didn't think Isaac could have possibly looked any more shocked, but apparently she was wrong. "Oh, crap. Holy sh—Y—you know Derek?"

"Of course I know that moron," Charlie growled back. "How are people still surprised by this? Isn't everybody used to me knowing what's going on by now?" She turned away from him and buried her face in her hands. What happened next? What was the protocol for this? She had been through a lot of crap, but newly-turned werewolves? That was something she had yet to deal with. She had gotten to skip that part of Scott's transformation. Nope. She couldn't think of a damn thing.

Charlie couldn't have looked away for more than half a minute, but by the time she looked up again, Isaac had disappeared. She was about to start spewing some exceptionally creative curses when she heard the shrill note of a whistle being blown. Lacrosse practice.

The way she took off, Charlie wouldn't have been surprised if there were clouds of dust being kicked up in her wake. She dodged through the gate of the fence and sprinted to the lacrosse field as quickly as she could manage. By the time she made it around the bleachers, the players were already making their way onto the field. Charlie skidded to a stop and forced herself to stand still as her eyes scoured the surrounding area, looking for Stiles and Scott. She found them sitting on the far set of bleachers, talking very closely. Charlie was just about to make her way over to them when the coach blew his whistle again. "Let's go!" the man's voice echoed across the field. "Line it up!"

"Shit," Charlie swore loudly. She started running across the field, earning strange looks from more than a few people and pretty much running into Stiles and Scott when she reached them. She had to clutch onto Stiles's shoulder to avoid toppling over. "Whoa," Stiles exclaimed. He put a hand on her waist to steady her. She was so flustered that she almost didn't notice he left it there after she had regained her balance. "Hey," Stiles said, looking at her earnestly. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"We've got trouble," she hissed. "Like a giant crapstorm of trouble headed straight for us. It's a crapnado."

"What is it?" Scott asked urgently, leaning towards her. "Is it Lydia? Has something changed?"

"No," Charlie said, making Stiles give an audible sigh of relief. "No it's not Lydia. It's—"

Before she could get another word out, the sound of that obnoxious whistle pierced the air again. "Hey!" the coach shouted at them. "McCall! What did I say? I said get on the field! So break up your little….tea party or whatever the hell that you're doing over there, and get in the goal right now!"

"But—"

The whistle interrupted Scott again and the coach squared his shoulders against them. "Sorry, has the meaning of the word 'now' suddenly and miraculously changed?! Because the last time I checked it meant you do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it! Are you still confused? Do I need to get a dictionary to beat you over the head with?!"

Scott's jaw twitched slightly and he let out a groan. "No coach!"

"THEN GET THE HELL IN THE GOAL!"

Scott glanced back and forth between Charlie and the field, torn over what so do. Stiles smacked him in the chest and jerked his head in the direction of the goal. "Go. Use your wolfy powers to figure this out."

Scott nodded and glanced at Charlie one last time. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking at her with an apologetic expression before jogging out on the field.

Charlie's mouth open and closed a few times, suddenly feeling epically confused herself. "Wait a second, what are we figuring out?"

Stiles let out a sigh and rubbed at the back of his neck. "You're not gonna like this, but…..Scott smelled another werewolf in the locker room. We're figuring out who it is." Charlie sighed heavily and pinched at the bridge of her nose. Stiles reached up and grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away. "Hold up," he said, his eyes scanning her face. "Why do you not look surprised by what I'm telling you right now? You should—you should be insanely surprised! Like 'holy crap this information is blowing my mind' surprised. Why—why aren't you surprised?"

"You remember that crapnado I was talking about?" she said, raising her eyebrows at him. "It's sort of the same—"

And once again, with that spectacularly inconvenient timing, the coach's whistle blew. The shrill tone kept going and going for a seemingly endless amount of time, only to be replaced by the coach's equally irritating voice. "Stilinski! Saying this to you once was an oddity, but twice…it's kind of baffling. Stop talking to girls and GET THE HELL ON THIS FIELD!"

"Son of a—" Stiles swore loudly and, like Scott, gave her an apologetic look. He grabbed Charlie by the shoulders and physically moved her to the first row of the bleachers and sat her down. "O—okay, just wait here. Right here. I'll find you after practice." Before Charlie could say anything he was sprinting on the field. Charlie slapped her hand on her forehead and let out a groan as she watched Stiles jog to the field. But even though Stiles was gone, Coach Finstock was still staring in her direction. He flashed a smile that could only be described as manically disturbing and waved at her with enthusiasm. Charlie grimaced back and gave a weak wave of her own, trying her best to block the thought of him and Mel from her brain. There was enough traumatizing stuff to begin with.

What happened next was a steaming pile of awkward. Apparently the big plan to figure out who the new werewolf was involved Scott abandoning his spot at the goal followed by body-slamming and sniffing every single member of his team as they tried to score on the goal. Even if she hadn't already figured it out already, she was pretty sure she could have come up with a couple of better strategies than that. She sat on the bleachers, elbows rested on her knees and hands covering her mouth as her foot bounced up and down frantically. As with most things these days, she got the distinct impression this was not going to go well. Her eyes darted back and forth, glancing between Stiles, Scott, and Isaac, hoping that everything wasn't going to blow up in their faces.

One by one, each lacrosse player hurled themselves towards Scott. Number 7. Number 12. Number 6. "It's Isaac!" Charlie murmured under her breath. "It's Isaac! Come on, Scott, put your ears on! You are super-freaking-useless when you don't pay attention, you know that?"

There was a small cough somewhere near to her. Charlie twisted her head around to find some girl sitting behind her, eyeing her suspiciously. Or rather eyeing the crazy chick talking to herself. Charlie shot her a tight smile and nodded at her before turning back around and glowering at the field. "You know I'm getting tired of being ignored, you guys! I look like a total psycho right now!"

And then Number 14 was at the front of the line. Scott would know soon enough what was going on. Charlie didn't even realize it at first, but her leg had stopped bouncing up and down and she was holding her breath. From that moment on, it seemed like things were going in slow motion. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Even though it was racing, the beats sounded slow to her. The two padded figures collided with a sickening crack, the force of it causing them to spin in the air.

The two of them hit the ground the same way—in the crouched position, ready for round two. Charlie slowly got to her feet, silently praying for them both to back the hell off. Neither of them moved. No attack. No retreat. No nothing. Charlie was just beginning to calm down until yet another problem—or rather _the_ problem—literally came out of left field and walked into the middle of the practice. Two policemen were heading straight for Isaac. And neither of them looked particularly warm and cuddly, especially seeing as one of them was Deputy Sean.

One thing was for sure—they were royally and epically screwed. And it wasn't even first period yet.

Well, shit.

**There it is! There's not a ton of Stiles in there, but there will be plenty in the next chapter. Plus you guys will find out a bit more about Charlie's past and in a fairly unexpected way, I think. I hope I wrote Isaac okay. I wanted to go for more confident, but not hugely so. And I wanted him to be kind of flirty but in a 'I'd like to get to know you better' way. There's not much pre-werewolf Isaac to base this off of, and I think he's still insecure with everything that happened with his dad. I just want it to be plausible.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! Each one of them is like a hug. Or an ice cream sundae. And they inspire me to write more, so feed the muse! Thanks so much for all your support.**

**SOUNDTRACK UPDATE**

**There's a link to my spotify account on my profile if you want to check it out.**

**Chapter 5 – Five by Five**

Stiles and Charlie play video games and trade insults.

-~-~-~-~-Lies – Is Tropical

A serious conversation followed by some sexual tension.

-~-~-~-~-~Platoon - Jungle

Charlie drives home and studies into the late hours of the night.

-~-~-~-~-Alarm – Wise Blood

Dream!Peter leaves Charlie with a lot to think about. End chapter.

-~-~-~-~-Devil Do – Holly Golightly*****Please listen to this one (the acoustic version). It's got an old school vibe to it and I just really think it's a great way to end a Peter-Charlie snarkfest. The song itself is kind of snarky. I'm probably going over the top with this, but I just really like the image of a pissed off Charlie sitting in a beach chair and fuming over Peter while this song plays.

**Chapter 6 – The Wrench in the Works**

Lydia faces down her classmates and reasserts her confidence.

-~-~-~-~-Natural One – Shearwater

Charlie hallucinates and then runs out of the school.

-~-~-~-~-Born Whole – Doe Paoro

Charlie finds out Isaac is a werewolf, watches the lacrosse practice, sees the cops approach.

-~-~-~-~-Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing – Chris Isaak

**Also, I implore you all to find and listen to the song 'Devil Like You' by Rainbow Kitten Surprise. The name of the band sounds ridiculous, but it's a GREAT song. I'm not sure where it'll go in the soundtrack, but it'll be there at some point.**


	7. Let Slip the Dogs of War

**Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.**

**A huge thank you to Monkey . gone . to . heaven , easythrowaway, beautifulgreek523, Bookiee, Ayine, katiesgotagun, YellowSubmarine93, Daenerys86, Gee Brittany, onethousandmoths, SK-Scatenato, Wolfihood, lyssalightwing, Female whovian, Tania, ForgeandGred4Ever, Roxu, TheMMMG, bagginsoftheshire666, hellohaha, TWsos12345, AspiredWriterr, WhatsGoingOn, FreckleFacedFrieda, Guest, KreativeGirl, Shes-The-Proto-Type, Guest, Etro13, Undeniable Weirdness, zvc56, Hanna, swanqueen4, Aoibhinn, Lammestrellicon, Smiles in the Shadows, X23 Maximoff, Jayjay 329, Asha, Just Anonymous, ParalyzedInHeaven, Guest, and Lady Shagging Godiva (so good to hear from you again!) for your reviews! I appreciate it so much, you have no idea!**

**Okay, so I know you guys want to see Charlie and Stiles get together. I DO TOO! Like, you have no idea how much. I'm sorry about the first couple of chapters. It's just that episodes 1 and 2 in this season are SO action-packed that there's less room for it. Developments will pick up in the subsequent episodes and I hope that I'm adding enough Stiles/Charlie moments to soothe your shipper hearts. By the way, I still haven't settled on a ship name for them yet. The most commonly used one is 'Starlie', but I'm open to suggestions!**

**Oh, also sorry for any grammar mistakes, etc. I've had a really rough two weeks (family stuff_ and don't have the energy to triple check, so it's more than likely you'll find several massively stupid and facepalm-inducing mistakes.**

Chapter 7 – Let Slip the Dogs of War

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey, I recently found out that some people posted on BrittWitt16's story 'The Wild Side' saying that it's similar to 'Black Water'. I just wanted to reiterate that it is 'Black Water' that is similar to 'The Wild Side'. She started her story first and gave me the idea to use the 'friends with Lydia thing'. I let her know and she gave me her blessing and all that, and I believe they have since evolved into very different works. But just to let everybody know, that's how my story started.

(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)

Entropy. It was the tendency of all the elements within a closed system, when left to their own devices, to progress towards disorder and chaos. Technically it was physics term, most closely related to the first law of thermodynamics, but generally Charlie liked to think about it in relation to the state of messiness of her room. She would clean it every Saturday and then somehow by the end of the week—through no fault of her own—it would like a tornado had ripped through it. Laundry would form small, disorganized piles, books and papers would be scattered everywhere, and the whole process would start over again. It was a cycle—she would put in the effort, entropy would do its thing, and she'd be left right where she had started. In the middle of a giant mess.

That's where she, Stiles, Scott, and now Allison kept finding themselves—in the middle of a giant mess the universe had created for them. And then they would run around all crazy-like, looking for clues and forming plans until by some miracle, they managed to clean everything up. It was hard and usually more than a little painful, but they got the job done. After that they got about two minutes where they got to feel like everything was going to be okay. But Beacon Hills was just like her damn room. It would never stay neat. As hard as they tried, they couldn't stop entropy. It was literally a force of nature. They could spend all the energy they had fighting it, trying to put those bits and pieces back in place to make a pretty picture, but as soon as they were done the whole process would over again and they'd be left with yet another mess to clean up. And from the looks of things, this one was going to be a doozy.

Charlie sat at her desk, pen in one hand and head propped up by the other. She was staring directly at the board in front of her, but if somebody had asked her what was being written on it, she couldn't have told them. Hell, the only reason she even knew she was in chemistry class was because of the unmistakably grating sound of Harris's voice. She wasn't registering the words he was saying—his voice sounded kind of like one of the adults from the Peanuts cartoons—but that voice had some inherent quality to it that automatically pissed her off. Which wasn't helping her current anxiety levels in the slightest.

If Charlie was at all interested in sports metaphors, she would have said that they were in the fourth quarter or ninth inning or something, but it would have just been a way of dressing up the very simple concept that they were totally and epically screwed. The standings didn't inspire much hope:

1) Isaac was a werewolf

2) Isaac's dad had been killed

3) The police were investigating Isaac for said death

4) Isaac could be detained for 24 hours if he was a suspect

5) Isaac had been abused by his dad, giving him motive and making him a plausible suspect

6) The full moon was that night

Any one of those elements could have been a fairly significant problem. Add them all up, and the sum was Isaac sitting in a cell and wolfing out in front of the entire sheriff's station. It spelled complete disaster. And that was before she took into account Gerard and the sudden abandonment of the hunter's code of ethics. So now they were all left trying to come up with solutions to an impossible problem. And that very vacant spot where Isaac would usually sit was preventing her from thinking about any of the things she should be thinking about. Chemistry, for example.

The worst part of it was that as much as this situation terrified Charlie, it made perfect sense to her. There was even a part of her that could look at it as a good thing. Derek was always going to find himself a pack. There was no way they could have prevented that—it was an inevitability. And where had Derek gone to start his pack? He found a boy who was broken and vulnerable and abused, and then he gave him something that could make him stronger. Something that would make him able to stand up for himself. If she blocked out all the other panic-inducing stuff, she would even have applauded him for it. He had probably rationalized the whole thing. Derek had always said that the bite was a gift, and he was giving it to the person who needed it the most. Charlie could understand that. It was good, noble even. But then again, maybe he had just gone and offered it to the person who was most likely to say yes. And all that other panic-inducing stuff? It was still there, which meant that Derek's decision was also very, very stupid.

Isaac didn't kill his dad. Charlie didn't know him all that well and she was fairly certain she had only gotten the tiniest glimpse of his relationship with his father, however bad it might be, but she was a pretty good judge of character when it came to people. She wasn't sure how it came about, but she had a way of understanding their motivations, whether or not she agreed with them or approved of them. And Isaac wasn't a killer. At least he wouldn't be if he had control over his actions. Once you threw 'werewolf' into the equation, the lines got a little bit blurred.

All of the sudden Charlie's view of the chalk board was obstructed by a very large hand snapping in her face. Charlie jumped in surprise, making her elbow slip against the smooth black laminate of the table and almost making her face plant on it. Her head jerked violently and she grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself before glowering at the owner of said hand. "Danny, what the hell?!" she hissed, careful to keep her voice lo enough that Harris couldn't hear. "Scare the crap out of me, why don't you?"

"Just checking to see if you were alive," Danny snorted. "You had a sort of 'I'm staring into the void' look."

"I'm in chemistry class," she grumbled back. "Where else would I be staring?"

And with that she turned away from Danny again, only this time instead of looking absently at the board, her eyes focused in on Stiles and Scott. The two of them were paying even less attention to the lesson than she was, which was saying a lot. They were hunched over their books and whispering at each other at a level just below her auditory capacity. Charlie was in no way considering becoming a werewolf, but she could really appreciate the practicality of the whole 'enhanced senses' thing at the moment. She was busy wallowing in frustration when there was a sharp poke in left shoulder. Swearing under her breath, she rounded on Danny who was staring at her with raised eyebrows. "Dude," she grumbled. "What are you doing?"

"What's going on with you today?" he whispered.

Charlie shrugged her shoulders and jerked her head to the side noncommittally. "Nothing. Why?"

"Well you keep staring off into space with this concussed look on your face," he said, inclining his head in her direction. "Plus there's the fact that you haven't hit on me once so far. You usually manage to throw in at least one cheesy pick-up line before second period."

"Well maybe you're just not looking especially attractive to me today," she drawled out, making a face at him.

Danny let out a loud scoff and leaned back in his chair, shooting her a skeptical look. "Please. We both know that's not true."

Charlie tsked and smirked widely. "Of course it isn't, you beautiful Adonis, you. You're a teenage Casanova, breaking hearts and forgetting names."

"Creepy," Danny murmured, wrinkling his nose at her.

"That's how I roll," Charlie replied with a passive shrug.

Danny rolled his eyes theatrically. "Whatever, creeper," he mumbled. "So what's got your panties in a twist, then?"

"I don't know, Danny," Charlie grumbled, getting a little bit frustrated by the sudden interrogation. "Maybe I just want to pay attention during Mr. Harris's super-important lecture. I'm soaking in the knowledge. Has that ever occurred to you?"

Danny scoffed loudly and gestured at her paper. "Literally the only thing you've written down this entire class is 'Mr. Harris is a douche'."

Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, Charlie glanced down at the lined pad of paper in front of her. Next to a few doodles of birds were the clearly spelled words 'Mr. Harris is a douche'. "Huh," she muttered making a face at the paper. "Maybe I thought that was the big takeaway lesson here."

"And it took you four months to figure that out?" Danny snorted. "Maybe you're not as freakishly smart as I though you were."

"And now it's my turn to say puh-leeze," she replied with a sickly sweet smile. "And I'm also going to need to borrow your notes for today."

Danny sighed heavily and shook his head. "Was already planning on it."

Charlie smirked and opened her mouth to let fly another cheesy pick-up line, but before she could something else caught her attention. That something being the flailing arms of one Stiles Stilinski. Charlie frowned at him quizzically. "What?" Stiles gestured frantically at the guy sitting next to her, making Charlie roll her eyes slightly. She smacked Danny in the arm and inclined her head in Stiles's direction. Something which Danny did not appear all that enthusiastic about.

"Danny!" Stiles whispered. "Where's Jackson?"

Danny shot Charlie a glance that clearly spelled 'why the hell is he talking to me?' before turning back to Stiles. "In the principal's office talking to your dad," he replied shortly.

At those words Charlie's head snapped around and Danny found her, Stiles, and Scott all staring at him with wide, slightly manic-looking eyes. "Jackson's talking to the cops?" Charlie demanded.

Danny blinked at the sudden degree of highly focused attention and shrugged before continuing. "Um, yeah," he muttered back. "Where else do you think he'd be?"

"I don't know," Charlie hissed. "Trying on scarves, product testing hair gel, stealing food from homeless people, or any of the other hobbies I'm sure he has. Why the hell would Jackson be talking to the cops in the first place?"

"Maybe because he lives across the street from Isaac," he shot back rather snarkily, like that was a piece of information they should all have already been privy to.

Stiles made eye contact with Charlie for about half a second before spinning around in his seat and exchanging some more hushed whispers with Scott. Letting out a small groan, Charlie leaned forwards, resting her arms on the table and perching her chin on her folded hands. Great. They were probably coming up with a half-assed plan and, as per usual, she was being left in the dark. As it turned out insomnia had its benefits. It was a good thing she had gotten so ahead in the lessons, because there was no way she'd be paying even the slightest bit of attention today. The sound of someone clearing his throat drew her attention away from the wallowing. She peeked up to see Danny staring at her with slightly judgmental eyes. "Whatever weird crap you guys are into this time," he sad, waving a finger in her face, "do me a favor and keep me out of it."

Charlie lifted a single hand and gave him a lazy salute, waiting to see what would come next. She didn't have to wait that long. Under two minutes later a crumpled up piece of paper was sailing through the air and smacked Mr. Harris in the back of the head with a scary degree of accuracy. There was a round of sniggering from the classroom, but Charlie's face was frozen in her patented 'oh, shit' expression. Mr. Harris's spine stiffened visibly and his head snapped around, facing down the class.

"Who in the hell did that?"

His beady eyes scoured the classroom, like he was trying to stare into the souls of all the students and figure out which of them committed such a violent assault. As soon as his gaze fell on any student in particular, any hint of laughter immediately stopped and they froze in fear. Charlie could swear that Mr. Harris was almost disappointed when he got his answer so quickly. It meant he had to focus his rage instead of letting it explode all over the place. But it was pretty much impossible to ignore the two idiots in the middle of the room pointing directly at each other. Charlie couldn't help groaning and rolling her eyes. She couldn't see their faces, but she could just picture the expressions. They were so damn pleased with themselves.

Mr. Harris's face screwed up into an expression of complete, unbridled, and yet oddly controlled rage, folding his arms across his chest as he faced down the two delinquents. "Mr. McCall, Mr. Stilinski," he drawled out in that hostile tone of his, practically spitting as he pronounced Stiles's name. "The juvenile tactics that you resort to should surprise me by now, but the fact that I have serious doubts that either of you have managed to progress past a third-grade reading level does rather soften the blow." He leaned down and picked up the crumpled up paper from the ground, then holding it up in front him like it was on display. "In fact, I would go so far as to say that your impossibly small brains hold about as much substance as this piece of paper."

He began to unfold the paper, making a big show of smoothing it out. When he was done, he picked it back up, a slimy smirk pulling at his lips as he looked down at it. "Would you look at that?" he said, holding it up for the entire class to see. "It's blank."

There was another round of sniggering, but this time it was softer and more restrained. But that didn't stop Stiles from clearing his throat and throwing his hand in the air. "Not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything, but isn't this the part where you, you know, punish us? I mean we did just totally undercut your authority just now. I mean one of us did. We didn't both throw the thing. That would—that would be ridiculous."

Mr. Harris's rat-like eyes narrowed into slits as he stared at Stiles. "Mr. Stilinski, I would rather lobotomize myself than spend another five minutes in the face to the sheer idiocy that seems to ooze out of your every pore, so I'm going to leave your punishment to a higher power."

"God?" Stiles said, his head perking up a bit.

Stiles elbowed Scott, making him jump in surprise. "Ah—bwah…Bill Gates?" Scott stammered in confusion, trying to play along with his friend.

"A magic-8 ball," Stiles piled on.

"Oprah?"

Stiles snapped his fingers and pointed at Scott, nodding enthusiastically in agreement. "Oh, yeah! That's—that's good one." Mr. Harris glared at the pair of them with such an intensity Charlie was surprised they didn't spontaneously burst into flame. Especially given the number of flammable chemicals in the area. Stiles just leaned towards Scott conspiratorially. "Dude," he said in a loud whisper. "I don't think he's talking about Oprah."

"You're going to the principal's office," Mr. Harris growled. "And I will rejoice in the fact that I will be spared looking at your vacant faces for another 32 minutes." Stiles and Scott lingered in their seats for a few moments, not quite sure of what to do next. That is, until Mr. Harris's voice echoed against the walls of the classroom. "Leave. Now."

In a small flurry of activity, Stiles and Scott scrambled to get all their books together, frantically shoving them in their bag. They tossed their bags over their shoulders and headed for the door, but not before Stiles sent her a wide grin and thumbs-up. She returned both of them, but her response took of a significantly more sarcastic tone. He rolled his eyes in response, but his lack of appreciation for _her_ lack of enthusiasm was somewhat undercut when he tripped on one of the legs of the desk, sending him stumbling a little bit. The two boys practically sprinted to the door, slamming it behind therm. Once they were gone, Mr. Harris turned back to the chalkboard. "Well," he said as he began to sketch out the next equation. "Now that the average IQ of the room has been raised five points, let's get on with the lesson, shall we?"

Grumbling to herself, Charlie looked down at her notebook, the words 'Mr. Harris is a douche' clearly written across the paper. "You can say that again," she mumbled under her breath.

"Why do you hang out with them so much?" Danny asked. "Because I've been trying to figure it out, and I'm just not getting it."

Charlie looked at the door the two boys had just exited before glowering back at Danny. "Says the guy who plays friend to Super-douche," she muttered back. "Seriously. Instead of the cape he's got all those pretentious scarves."

"What's with the sudden interest in Jackson's scarves?" Danny demanded.

"Okay, one," Charlie replied, holding up a single finger, "you just made the leap from 'Super-douche' to Jackson totally on your own and I feel that should be acknowledged. Two—" she lifted a second finger "—I'm commenting on the scarves because they look totally ridiculous."

After that, Charlie tried to pay attention to the lesson. Really, she did. But listening to Harris talk was difficult enough in the first place seeing as every time she heard his voice she instinctively wanted to punch someone in the face. It didn't matter whose face, just somebody's face. And right now Danny was sitting closest to her and his face was just too pretty to mess up. That would have been the problem on a normal day—a day when where weren't rogue, freshly-turned werewolves and full moons and cops and feuds with close friends and other friends that went on naked forest walks and she was coping with newly-discovered romantic feelings for yet another close friend….dear God, what had her life turned into? It was equal parts soap opera and straight-to-television horror movie.

Ugh. This was the worst. The absolute worst. And for once, Harris wasn't actually the primary thing making her miserable. It was that damn curiosity. The whole 'not knowing' thing was something she was never really good at. It was like there was somebody sitting in the chair next to her, constantly poking her in the shoulder and whispering, 'Hey! There's something really, really interesting going on! And you've got no clue what it is! Suck it!' Yup. The imaginary voice in her head just told her to suck it. Her imagination was kind of a dick. Did that make her a dick? No. Focus, Charlie. That was a question for another time. Or never. Never was better. Ugh. Why did Stiles and Scott keep coming up with plans and not telling her about them? She thought they were past that by now.

Everything around Charlie was getting exceptionally loud. The ticking of the clock, the scratching of pencils against paper, and Greenburg's mouth-breathing all echoed in her ears. And then there was the general sound of Harris's ego. It kind of sounded like Darth Vader's 'Imperial Death March'. Or Tibetan throat singing. Charlie's knee began bouncing up and down faster and faster as she got more and more impatient. Then she looked up at the clock again, and her heart fell. It had only been three minutes since Tweedledum and Tweedledumber had made their loud, un-stealthy, altogether uncoordinated escape. The levels of frustration and anxiety kept getting higher and higher until…nope. No. She couldn't do it—not anymore. No more getting side-lined. She ground her teeth together, steeling her resolve, and threw her pencil down with conviction. "Screw it."

At the sound of her voice Danny's head popped up again. "Screw what now?" he mumbled, blinking in confusion. Charlie sighed and pressed her lips together in a determined line, lifting a single hand in the air. When she did, the confused look on his was wiped away and replaced by one of sheer, unadulterated horror. "No," he whispered, shaking his head at her. "No. No, no, no. Charlie, put your hand down." Charlie shrugged apologetically and left it in the air, waiting for Mr. Harris turned around. Danny's jaw twitched violently as he glowered at her. "Charlie. Put it—put it down!" he said through clenched teeth. "I'm serious! Hand. Down. Now. Seriously! Put it down!"

From the looks of things he was just getting started, but, as luck would have it, Mr. Harris turned around and caught sight of her. There was that typical sigh of frustration before he spoke. "Yes, Ms. Oswin," he drawled out in a hostile tone. "What pressing matter do you have to share with the rest of the class today? Dazzle me."

"I have to go to the nurse," Charlie said simply. She let her hand drop out of the air, and it hit the table pretty much at the same time as Danny's forehead.

"You have got to be kidding me," Danny groaned.

Mr. Harris had just about the same reaction as Danny did, only a hell of a lot more judgmental. He let out a skeptical scoff and folded his arms across his chest, staring at her like she was a particularly gross specimen of slime mold. "I'm not sure the nurse will be sufficient to properly address the problems you've been afflicted with, Ms. Oswin."

Charlie pursed her lips and shook her head. "Nah," she murmured. "I think Mrs. Talbot is more than capable."

Mr. Harris blinked at her contradiction and started taking small steps in her direction. "Really?" he demanded. "And, pray tell, what is it that ails you exactly? You don't look sick to me. You're the picture of health. What exactly is your excuse?"

"Cramps."

That one word seemed be enough to throw Harris at least a little bit off guard. He suddenly stopped his approach about halfway between the chalkboard and where she was sitting. A small round of sniggering broke out once again in the classroom. Danny, on the other hand, emitted a low groan of frustration. Harris exhaled sharply and raised his eyebrows to the point that they appeared above the frames of his glasses. "Cramps?"

"Mm-hmm," Charlie said, solemnly nodding. "Cramps."

Harris let out another passive-aggressive laugh and raised his hand to his face like a poker player trying to hide his cards. "That's interesting," he murmured. "You don't seem to be in any sort of pain."

"I tend to internalize my pain," Charlie replied simply. "It feels like someone is trying to tear out my uterus through my bellybutton."

"Thank you Ms. Oswin," he drawled out, "for that…..vivid imagery." He continued his slow and unnecessarily dramatic approach to her desk until he was standing directly in front of her, looming like a dark storm cloud. It was probably the only scenario where he actually got to be taller than most people. When he finally removed his hand from his face, it revealed a cold, sadistic smirk. "Seeing as you are so eager to get out of this class room, you can go. But you will be joining Mr.'s McCall and Stilinski at the principal's office."

"For what?" Charlie demanded making a face at him.

Apparently Mr. Harris didn't like the lack of respect conveyed by said face, because his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "For cutting class."

"But I'm sitting in your classroom," Charlie protested, throwing her arms wide. "How could I possibly be cutting class?"

"I've been teaching long enough to know the signs of degenerate delinquency when I see them," Harris returned. "Let's just say I'm taking a preemptive strike against your own stupidity. Maybe that way some sort of discipline will sink in through that thick skull of yours."

"So you're punishing me for something we haven't done yet?" Charlie replied, raising her eyebrows at him. "Are we in 'The Minority Report' right now?"

"We are in my class, Ms. Oswin," he shot back with a smugness that kind of made her want to smack that smirk right off his face. "When we're in my classroom, we play by my rules. And I must say I am disappointed but not surprised that you used a Tom Cruise movie to make your argument."

"Actually I was referencing the 1956 Philip K. Dick short story," Charlie quipped back.

Of all the things she had said, for some reason that one sentence seemed to make Harris the angriest. The spine stiffened, the jaw twitched, and somehow the eyes seemed to get even beadier than usual. He pulled himself to his full height, which admittedly wasn't all that impressive, but for a few seconds that nightmare of him lighting her on fire with a Bunsen burner seemed more plausible than she was entirely comfortable with. "Pack up your things and get out," he ordered. After staring at him evenly for a few minutes, Charlie turned back to her desk and began packing up her things. In true form, Harris smirked down at her. "I'm afraid you'll be receiving a zero for the in-class problem set today," he threw in, nodding at the page 73 problems he had written out on the board. "Seeing as you won't be here to complete them."

"Oh, that's not going to be an issue," Charlie mumbled as she amassed her papers.

Harris let out a derisive snort. "Of course it won't."

With that he turned his back to her and headed back to the front of the class. In a gloriously immature moment, Charlie stuck her tongue out at his back. The second Harris got out of earshot, Danny leaned in her direction, fixing her with a judgmental glare. "Cramps? Really?"

"It doesn't invite questions," Charlie muttered back. She flipped through her notebook until she got to the desired page and neatly extracted a few of the sheets, careful to scribble her name on all of them.

"It didn't exactly work, did it?" he shot back. "I heard a lot of questions.'

"Well Harris is an abnormality, isn't he?"

"Was that really necessary?" Danny piled on, staring down at the papers she was shuffling around with a small degree of curiosity.

"What can I say?" Charlie sighed. She clicked her pen dramatically and threw it in her bag. "When I commit to a course of action, I really commit."

"You mean you should be committed?" Danny corrected for her.

"Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. I can hardly breathe from laughing." She finished shoving all the things in her bag except for those few pieces of paper and punched Danny lightly in the shoulder. "See you on the other side."

Charlie pushed back her chair and got to her feet before slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. Yet again, there was another round of soft snorts as she walked by the rest of her fellow classmates—she was pretty sure she even heard one of them muttering 'dead girl walking'—but she still came to a stop next to Mr. Harris's desk. His eyes flickered in her direction, but he didn't turn from the board. Without saying anything, she reached down and picked up the stapler sitting on the desk corner, using it to staple those loose pages together. She dropped them on his desk and moved to the door, but before she could leave, his voice made her halt.

"And what would these be?" Harris demanded, brandishing the pages at her.

"Those are the problems for page 73," she deadpanned, nodding at the board. "I got a little ahead in the work."

Charlie didn't leave any opportunity for a retort. She spun on her heel and marched out the classroom as requested, letting the door close gently behind her. As soon as she managed to escape the classroom, a giant grin split across her face and she had to shove a fist in her mouth to keep from exploding with laughter. The plan hadn't worked exactly according to plan. Okay, it hadn't worked at all as she had planned. But the end result was still the same and that counted for something, right? She walked briskly through the hallway making two lefts and a right before she found them.

When Charlie found the wonder twins, she couldn't help but roll her eyes. Stiles was sitting in the chair closest to the door of the principal's office with Scott right next to him. They were practically pressing their ears to the glass to hear what was being said on the other side, something that seemed a little bit unnecessary in Scott's case... The both of them were so preoccupied, neither seemed to notice her approach and when she dropped into the empty seat next to Scott they both jumped in surprise. Stiles's eyes widened and his head snapped back and forth, looking around the hallways like they were about to be mobbed by flying monkeys. Once he assured himself that the coast was clear, he scrambled out of the chair he was sitting in and collapsed in the one on Charlie's other side. Suddenly had two sets of wide eyes staring at her from either side like they were expecting her to explain something. Charlie glanced back and forth between them, unsure of what to say. "What?"

"Charlie, what are you doing here?" Scott whispered, looking at her urgently.

"The same thing you are," she shot back. "And by the way, thanks for icing me out again. That was super-cool of you."

"We were getting ourselves detention," Stiles hissed from her other side, making her head snap around to look at him. "Is that something you really wanted to be a part of?" He blinked at her and cocked his head to the side curiously. "Wait how did you get Harris to let you out too? Gah—don't tell me you threw something at him. Once was stupid, twice is just ridiculous. I know it's really tempting but—"

"Please," Charlie said, rolling her eyes. "I said I had to go to the nurse."

"For what?" Scott whispered.

"Cramps."

The reaction was pretty much instantaneous, and exactly what Charlie typically expected. Confusion, discomfort, horror, the sudden desire to run straight from the room whilst screaming at the top of their lungs. All the usual reactions flitted across both of their faces. Stiles actually stuck his tongue out, flinching a bit. It was Scott who managed to start talking first. "Is it—is it true?"

"Jesus, Scott, no!" Charlie hissed, smacking him in the chest. "Get with the program."

"Wh—what program?" Stiles demanded. "This is not a program we—" he gestured between him and Scott "—we are not in on this program! We are far, far away from this program! As far as I'm concerned, that program doesn't exist. I—"

"Exactly," Charlie said, nodding him.

"What 'exactly'?" Stiles hissed, using air quotes. "You can't just say 'exactly' and expect everybody to spectacularly know what you're talking about!"

"Your instinctive fear of girly parts gives us an inherent conversational advantage in some cases. It's a special superpower. Watch this." She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. The next word came out as a whisper. "Tampon." The both of them shivered in discomfort, their faces scrunching up into uncomfortable expressions. Snorting to herself Charlie snapped her fingers and pointed back and forth between the two boys. 'You see that reaction right there? That's your weakness. Start talking about that kind of thing and you try and get out of the conversation so quickly you really don't even care what you agreed to."

The appalled expression dropped off Stiles's face and was replaced by one of curiosity. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Bwah, that….that actually works?"

"Um, yeah," Charlie replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Do you have any idea how many times I got out of being grounded?"

"It's true," Scott whispered, staring out into space with an expression of awe.

"Wha—? How would you know it works?" Stiles protested.

"That time I was sneaking around in Kate's bag and she accused me of stealing something?" he clarified. "Charlie said, uh, what she said and Kate backed off. Like immediately."

"I have power," Charlie said, nodding to herself. "I'm a wizard."

"It even worked with Harris?" Scott whispered, looking oddly impressed.

Charlie winced heavily and shook her head. "Afraid not. He just sent me to the principal's office for 'attempting to ditch class'," she muttered using air quotes. "No impact on him whatsoever. Reason thirty-eight why I'm pretty sure he's a sociopath."

"There are only thirty-eight reasons?" Scott mumbled bitterly.

"Okay, guys?" Stiles interjected, waving his hands around frantically to catch their attention. "As interesting and….illuminating as all this is, I think we need to start paying attention to what's going on in there."

"Right," Charlie muttered, settling into her seat. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing yet," Stiles replied. "It's been all the standard, lead-in stuff. State your address, state your name for the record, that kind of thing. But my dad should be getting to the important stuff soon."

At that, the three of them settled in for the ride. They probably looked kind of ridiculous, all their ears pressed against the glass. Luckily for them, though, no questions were inspired. The hallway remained deserted. Charlie sucked in a deep, nervous breath and thought about what exactly was going to be revealed next. But for some reason the sound of Sheriff Stilinski's voice on the other side of the glass calmed her down a bit. He would do what he could. He always did.

After a minute or so of the typical questions, the sheriff got to the pertinent stuff. Charlie didn't even realize that she was holding her breath until her lungs started screaming out for air. "Do you think there would be any reason for Isaac to want to hurt his father?" she heard the sheriff's voice ask.

"Um, yeah," Jackson's cocky, rage-inducing voice replied. "Sure. Absolutely."

There was a pause in the conversation and that feeling of anxiety in the pit of Charlie's stomach began to grow. "You care to elaborate a little bit?" the sheriff pressed, clearly not amused by the hostile witness he was being forced to deal with.

"Well for starter's the guy's an ass," Jackson pointed out.

Charlie let out a bitter snort and ground her teeth together. "Isn't that the pot calling the kettle a dick," she muttered before being theatrically shushed by Stiles.

"Okay," the sheriff continued, his frustration mounting. "Is there anything you can tell me about what might have happened last night? Anything at all out of the ordinary that might give us some hint where to look?"

Next Charlie had the privilege to listen to one of Jackson's self-involved, stuck-up sighs. The sound of it made her blood boil a bit, but she locked down that frustration she felt every time he opened his mouth. It wouldn't be useful. "Yeah," Jackson finally replied. "Lahey comes running out of the house all scared and twitchy, gets on his bike, and takes off. Then his dad comes out yelling, gets in the car, and goes after him."

"And when was this?" the sheriff pressed.

"I don't know—like 10:00?" Jackson groaned. "10:30? I mean it's not like I keep track of all the crap that goes on over there. Not my problem."

Sheriff Stilinski exhaled sharply, but by some miracle managed to keep his temper. "Do you have any idea why Isaac would have run out of the house in the middle of the night?"

"Probably because his deadbeat dad was wailing on him again."

As soon as the words were uttered, something in the changed. It was like the temperature had suddenly dropped about twenty degrees and sudden feeling of nausea coursed through Charlie's body. She had some idea of what was going on in the Lahey house, but it was just that. An idea. An idea was unformed, hypothetical—it could be refuted or disproven. And she really hoped her idea of what was going on could be refuted. Confirmation that her suspicions were right? That made everything so, so much worse.

"Listen you—you're telling me you _knew_ Isaac's father was hitting him?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, his voice colored by disbelief.

"Hitting him?" Jackson continued in that arrogant tone of his. "He was kicking the crap out of him."

"Did you tell anyone?" the sheriff asked. "Teachers, parents, anyone?"

"Nope," Jackson replied casually. "It's not my problem."

At that point her ears shut off. She didn't need to hear anything else. Being without words wasn't something Charlie was used to. But her rage didn't need any words. It was a single, overwhelming sensation that flooded through until it filled up every single part of her being. A mental image was forming in her head. Jackson was casually sitting in the chair, legs crossed, looking around with an air of superiority, completely at ease as he discussed the sustained abuse of one his teammates and checking his watch to see how much longer he would have to deal with the sheriff. Charlie had never liked Jackson, that much she had made perfectly clear. But there had always been the possibility that he had some redeeming characteristics. Danny liked him, Lydia loved him—there must have been something she didn't see. So she had always allowed for the slim possibility that maybe, just maybe, she could possibly find a way to at least tolerate him. Now she was done. She was done even looking for a reason not to hate him.

It was only when she heard Stiles say her name that anything broke through. "Charlie, are you okay?" Stiles whispered.

Charlie exhaled sharply through gritted teeth and shook her head. "I'm fine, Stiles," she said in a tight voice that was in no way believable. "I'm just trying to come up with the most effective way of killing Jackson and getting away with it. An overdose of potassium is pretty much impossible to detect and would trigger a cardiac event. Scott's mom is a nurse so she could probably take care of that for us. And it's fairly easy to miss a needle mark when it's under the toenail. Being knocked out unconscious during a lacrosse game isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility."

"Okay….." Stiles drawled out. "That's a scarily specific plan."

"Woah," Scott murmured, eyeing her warily. "Is that actually a thing? Like could that work?"

Charlie didn't respond. If she began to speak again, she was pretty sure she would start screaming. And once those floodgates were opened, she wasn't certain she would be able to stop. She grabbed onto the arms of the chair, physically holding on so she could fight the urge to burst into the office and drag Jackson out but his perfectly coiffed hair. Except the hair gel would probably make it impossible to hold onto it. But that was okay. The neck would work just as well. She was going into an anger spiral. Isaac had been abused for who knows how long, and Jackson had known. He had known the whole time, and he hadn't had the decency to pick up the damn phone.

"Don't do it," Stiles said, nudging her in the side with his elbow.

"Don't do what?" Charlie bit out, actively not looking at him.

"Punch Jackson in the face," he replied. "One of the many faces of Charlotte Oswin is the 'I'm gonna punch someone in the face' face. And you're wearing that face right now. It's written all over—" he waved a hand around her face "—here. Don't do it."

"You're asking a lot," Charlie growled.

"Then at least wait till after school," he mumbled back. He kicked his feet out in front of him and sunk lower in his seat. "We've got work to do and you being banned from school property isn't going to help." She could feel his eyes on her as she spoke, but still didn't look at him. "Hey, we're gonna do everything we can to help Isaac now. It's all we can do."

Charlie had been staring out at nothing in particular, but her eyes snapped up to Stiles's. He was staring at her with an expression of concern and regret with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. She swallowed heavily and looked down at her hands where they were gripping the arm rest of the chair. The knuckles were white as they strained against the skin. She bit her lip and tried to fight back the rage, but she was pretty sure she was losing. Then another hand appeared next to hers. Stiles reached down and placed his hand on the armrest of his chair as well, but the seats were placed so close together, his hand brushed gently against hers. It was weird. She had punched him in the shoulder and hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, but for some reason that square inch of skin brushing against his hand felt like a jolt of electricity. She had to physically stop herself from grabbing hold of his hand and lacing their fingers together. But she didn't move her hand. And neither did he.

Suddenly the door to the office was wrenched open and a tall figure clothed in khaki stepped through. Before Charlie even had to register whose head was balanced on top of that uniform, Stiles had managed to conjure up two 'Us' magazines from somewhere and was scrambling to get one of them open. The other one landed in her lap. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, waving the magazine at him and missing the feeling of his skin against her own.

Stiles didn't say anything. He just peeked up over top of the magazine for about half a second before hiding behind it again. "Don't look at me!" he hissed. "Use the magazine! Be stealth-like!"

"What?"

He glanced sideways at her from behind the magazine with wide eyes, like he was trying to warn her off. "I said—ugh—just—dammit!"

When she turned around to face in front of her, she found herself staring at the sheriff. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he dragged his feet as he came to a stop in front of them. His eyes were trained on the magazine Stiles was currently hiding behind. Sighing heavily, he turned to the other one of the wonder twins. "Scott," he said rather loudly. Scott smiled and gave an uncomfortable nod, leaving the sheriff one more person to address. "Charlie," he said turning to her. "I'm a little surprised to see you here."

"They, uh, called me down here to give me a commendation for perfect attendance," Charlie blurted out quickly.

The sheriff snorted skeptically and raised his eyebrows at her. "Really? They called you out of class to give you an award for perfect attendance."

"H—yeah," Charlie laughed nervously. "That irony….was not lost on me either."

She really couldn't tell if the sheriff was entertained or annoyed. She was getting quite used to seeing that look on his face. The sheriff narrowed his eyes at Scott and Charlie and the both of them just smiled back, exchanging a look as they did so. Finally the sheriff let out a heavy sigh and nodded at them. "I'm sure I'll be seeing the two of you soon enough."

The sheriff's eyes lingered for a few moments on the back of the magazine before slowly walking down the hallway. As the sound of the footsteps got softer and softer, Stiles peaked over the edge of the magazine, his eyes darting right and left, to check if the coast was clear. Charlie rolled her eyes heavily and snatched the thing out of his hand. "Alright, master of disguise," she muttered. "The coast is clear. Your dad's gone."

"Dude, I told you to use the magazine," Stiles complained.

"It's a magazine, not an invisibility cloak," Charlie shot back, smacking him in the chest with said rolled up magazine. "And next time you need me to hide behind one of those things, make sure it's something of substance. Think less 'Us Weekly' and more 'Time' or 'National Geographic'."

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her and shook his head. "You sound really judgmental right now."

Charlie wrinkled her nose again and opened her mouth for a retort, but before she could the door to the principal's office squeaked loudly and another figure stepped through. As soon as he saw them, that typical, arrogant smirk formed on his face. "Well would you look at this," he sneered. "The Three Stooges, right here in Beacon Hills. Which one of you is going to hit the other ones over the head with a hammer?" He paused for a moment before holding up a hand to make them stop. "You know what, I don't care. It's not like it would make any of you stupider than you already are."

The rage flared up again, making Charlie grip the arms of the chair even tighter than before. If she applied much more pressure, the wood would begin to splinter in her hands. But she kept her mouth shut. And her nails away from his face. Jackson seemed to notice her distress, because that smug grin on his face got even larger. "See you in class," he smirked. He walked down the hallway a few steps, but then spun on his heel to face them. "Or, you know, don't. Enjoy the detentions."

The puckered expression on Charlie's face as she watched him go kind of made it look as though she was sucking on lemons. Scratch that, a bag of lemons. A freaking crate of lemons. "That's it," she murmured, glowering at his back as he disappeared down the hall. "I'm putting another squirrel in his locker!"

"Alright, I'm not even going to ask you to clarify that one," Stiles snorted.

"Wait, what do you mean 'another squirrel'?" Scott demanded, looking at her curiously.

"Would you rather I introduced him to Statler and Waldorf?" Charlie barreled on, raising her eyebrows at the two of them and ignoring Scott's 'confused puppy' expression.

"Those old dudes from 'The Muppets'?" Scott asked, his eyebrows furrowing even more than usual. "What do they have to do with anything?"

She lifted her fists in the air pointedly. "Statler. Waldorf."

A loud groan emanated from Stiles's seat. "You named your fists?" he whined. "Seriously? And if you're gonna name your fists, why the hell would you name them after two dudes made of felt?"

"Because," Charlie said seriously. "They are vocal about their opinions and very difficult to appease."

Stiles sighed and rubbed at his eyes in frustration. "Well if those are the criteria I might as well name mine Joan Rivers and Simon Cowell," he muttered back.

"Yes," Charlie said, nodding enthusiastic. "I absolutely think you should do that."

All of the sudden Scott's head appeared in the periphery of her vision, leaning forwards to get a good look at the two of them as they bickered. That wide-eyed expression of horror was enough to completely destroy any sense of wellbeing that she had. "Hey!" he hissed, making the both of them look at him. "This means Isaac's a suspect right?"

Both she and Scott faced Stiles, waiting for his answer. A dark expression flitted across his face and he swallowed heavily. "It's motive," he muttered, scratching at his forehead. "Yeah. They can hold him for this. They _will_ hold him for this."

"What are we going to do know?" Scott hissed. "We're kind of stuck here till further notice."

It was a good question. Honestly she hadn't thought that much ahead. As far as she had gotten was that ploy to get her to the 'nurse's office', and that had pretty much blown up in her face. Shit, this was becoming a very real and present problem. It wasn't like she could link arms with her very own scarecrow and cowardly lion and skip to Oz. They had needed to get themselves into trouble. Now they needed to get out of it. Fast. But just as she was contemplating making a break for it and chasing down Isaac and the cops, the door to the principal's office opened a third time.

"Boys."

That one word sliced through the air and sent a chill down her spine. It wasn't the voice she heard over the intercom when the principal did his morning announcements. She didn't even recognize it, but it held an easy air of authority that made her instinctively wary. And when she turned her head to find the source of that voice, she wasn't disappointed.

Gerard Argent. The last any of them had seen the man, he was cutting somebody in half with a broadsword. And now he was standing in front of them wearing a blazer, a button-down shirt, some slacks, and a creepy smile. Charlie froze like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to say or do. It took a few seconds under that casual yet calculating stare of his to realize that the man still didn't have a clue who she was. Who any of them were. Which meant they were safe for now, but it didn't make the man standing in front of her any less terrifying.

"You're not the principal," Stiles blurted out before any of them had a chance to think up anything remotely useful to say.

"Yes," Gerard murmured, flashing them a smile that made her shiver. "Your former principal, Mr. Whitley, has decided to...pursue a prolonged sabbatical. It was a very sudden decision, and when they needed for someone to fill in, I was more than happy to volunteer my services."

"Uh-huh," Stiles murmured, narrowing his eyes at the man. "I'll bet you were."

Charlie swore inwardly and smacked Stiles in the chest to get him to shut up. Unfortunately that seemed to turn her into the object of Gerard Argent's attention, and she quickly realized that was not a place she liked to be. "Oh," he said, looking down at her curiously. "I was given to understand that I'd only be meeting two students."

Charlie laughed nervously and shrugged her shoulders. "Turns out chemistry class is a breeding ground for delinquency."

The reaction she got was a bit unexpected. Instead of that disapproving glower she had received from Allison's father so many times he chuckled, revealing a threatening set of teeth that were almost too white. "Well the more the merrier," he responded with a knowing smile. "Come on in. Oh, and you might want to bring an extra chair."

None of them moved. It was kind of like one of those bad pranks where somebody puts superglue on the chair and forces you to stay in place. Gerard stood there with that slightly sinister smile and turned the corner into his office again. It was actually a neat little move. He was forcing them to follow him, establishing his dominance in the situation—his ownership of that room. He might smile at them and be inviting, but as far as Charlie was concerned there wasn't a bone in his body that wasn't cold and calculating. The three of them looked back and forth between each other, wondering what the hell they were supposed to do and trying to cope with this cosmic slap in the face. But there was really only one thing to do.

Scott got up first, taking a deep breath before ducking into the office. Letting out a small groan, Charlie got up as well and was about to follow Scott through the door until she realized Stiles hadn't moved from his seat. Frowning to herself, Charlie moved to stand in front of him and raised her eyebrows, the cue that started most of their 'silent conversations'. On this particular occasion those raised eyebrows roughly translated to '_get the hell out of that chair_'. Stiles gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head meaning '_no freaking way_' to which she responded with a narrowing of the eyes.

'_Don't be stubborn_'.

He folded his arms across his chest and jutted out his chin. '_No way_._ Not going to happen._'

She jerked her head in the direction of the door. '_Come on. It's not like this is something we can avoid_.'

He rolled his eyes. '_Ugh. Fine_.'

Grumbling to himself, he got to his feet and grabbed the back of his chair, dragging it along with his feet as they trudged into the office. Both Scott and their new principal were already seated. Mr. Argent looked perfectly serene, but Scott already seemed like he was unraveling a bit—twitching jaw and foot tapping frantically. Charlie cleared her throat and took the empty seat while Stiles pulled the spare one up between her and Scott.

Infinite blackness. That's what Charlie saw when she looked in Grandpa Argent's eyes. Cold, calm, calculating, and empty. Staring into them made her feel hollow, like she could get lost. Charlie shifted in her chair trying to make herself more comfortable, more at ease, but the chair wobbled under her movement. It reminded her of something her dad had told her a long, long time ago—an old trick some of his friends would use if they were interrogating someone. They would shorten one of the legs of the chairs so that the person sitting in it would never be stable, never be settled. That way they could never be comfortable in that seat. It put them on edge so they would crack more easily. And she bet that if she looked at the bottom of one of those chair legs, she would find saw marks.

Looking around the room, Charlie tried to pick apart her surroundings to see if there were any clues that might tell her who exactly she was dealing with. For the most part it looked like your typical principal's office. She had been in enough of them over the years to be able to make that sort of declarative statement. All the usual hallmarks were there—beige walls to repress any sense of creativity among the students, diplomas hung up on the walls, the token stapler. It was exactly as it should be, and totally devoid of clues. It was sterile. Which, now that Charlie thought about it, was a clue in and of itself.

There were no photos. There was no artwork. There was nothing that could even hint to her that the man even had a life outside the four walls of his office. What that told her only served to reinforce what she already suspected. Gerard Argent was a man devoid of sentiment who didn't like to leave a mess. Unfortunately for them, they were the mess he was trying to clean up. He just didn't know it yet.

When the three of them were finally seated, Gerard took a few minutes simply to observe them. He sat in his chair which was slightly higher up than theirs giving him that impression of authority height usually imbued, hands folded on the table, and just stared at them. She knew it was another power play—a way of establishing dominance over them by making them feel uncomfortable—but knowing that didn't stop her chest from constricting. Stiles responded to stress the way he usually did, getting increasingly jumpy and jittery with each passing moment. But at least the two of them were doing better than Scott. He was staring at Mr. Argent with this constipated-looking expression on his face. She wouldn't be surprised if he up and passed out any second.

"Well!" Grandpa Argent finally proclaimed. He clapped his hands together loudly, making the three of them jump in surprise at the noise. His lips twitched slightly at the sights, like he was fighting back a smile. "As you know," he continued, "I am new to Beacon Hills High School, and before we get back to the….unpleasantness of disciplining you three, I think we should try to become better acquainted." He turned to Charlie and smiled widely. It was probably meant to be reassuring, but to her it was more like a predator bearing their teeth. "Ladies first. Now I was informed that I would be receiving two students, Mr.'s McCall and Stilinski—" he tapped his finger on the two files already on his desk for emphasis "—but there was no mention of a young lady. What is your name?"

Having the full force of that man's attention was not an easy thing to cope with. It felt as if he was trying to climb inside her brain and beat against the walls of her skull until he managed to scare up all of her secrets. And she had enough people in her head to begin with, thank you very much. Charlie blinked, trying to reorient herself, and cleared her throat. "Oswin," she answered quickly. "Charlotte Oswin."

Grandpa Argent nodded in understanding before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his keys. The clinked almost impossibly loudly, demanding Charlie's attention, and as she stared at them there were two things that caught her focus—a single silver bullet attached to a chain and a flash drive. She could only see them for about half a second before they disappeared below the desk. Grandpa Argent—man, she was going to have to come up with something better to call him—opened one of his desk drawers and rooted around in it before pulling out yet another file, only this one was considerably thicker than the other two. For some reason Stiles straightened in his seat, craning his neck to get a better look at the stack of papers even though they were still hidden away in the folder. "Is—is that your file?" he asked, shooting her a glance and gesturing wildly at the papers. "_The_ file? The one where all the secrets that make up the inscrutable Charlie Oswin are held?"

The suspicious expression on Stiles's face was replaced by one of ridiculous, child-like glee that didn't seem to fit the situation at all. He kind of looked like a kid who had just been given a juice box and been told to settle in for story time. Letting out a groan, Charlie sank down in her seat and willed herself to disappear right then and there. She could have magical witchy powers, right? Werewolves existed, so it wasn't totally beyond the realm of possibility, was it? But no, she was still very much there and very much visible. Yup. This was going to go just great.

As was expected, a little more than a cursory read was required for their principal to fully appreciate the information that file contained. In fact, she could track his progress through the positioning of his eyebrows. They started of in their normal spot, but then began to move up the forehead incrementally until they almost disappeared into his already receded hairline. Finally, Grandpa Argent flipped the file shut, much to the frustration of Stiles, and looked at her with an expression that was either critical or impressed. Hell, maybe it was both.

"I must say, this is one of the more…..colorful files I've had the pleasure of reading," he murmured, shooting her a tight smile.

Charlie exhaled sharply and smiled back in turn. "I had a unique childhood."

"Well I would say so," Grandpa Argent continued, glancing in the file one more time. "Four schools, four cities, six years, all while maintaining virtually perfect grades. That combined with your…transition? It is impressive."

The mention of her father, especially by him, made Charlie clam up a little. She folded her arms across her chest and retreated inwardly, but not enough that she didn't notice Stiles shifting uncomfortably next to her. His eyes darted in her direction to see if she was okay. Grandpa Argent seemed to pick up on the change in the atmosphere because he quickly moved to the next point. "You're a clever girl, that much is clear, but there are some incidences that give me pause."

Charlie scrunched up her face into an elaborate cringe. She knew what was about to come next. A long list of her misdeeds, categorized and color-coded. "Now let's see," he drawled out. "There was the incident where you snuck into school after hours and drew caricatures of all the teachers on their own whiteboards. In Sharpie."

Grandpa Argent turned to Charlie, looking at her expectantly. "You know when Banksy does stuff like that, they call it art."

The man's lip twitched slightly before his eyes flickered down to the file again, making Charlie cover her face with her hands. "You somehow managed to fill your history teacher's car with popped popcorn," he barreled on. "You glued a lawn gnome to your principal's desk. You hijacked the morning announcements to play fifteen minutes of whale sounds. You released a live squirrel in the teacher's lounge. I could go on."

"Y—yes," Stiles stammered, waving a hand in a circle to prompt him to keep going. "Yes. You should absolutely go on. Never stop talking for that matter."

"Wait a second," Scott hissed, staring at her with a wide-eyed expression of awe. "That squirrel thing was real? You actually did that?" Charlie shot him a glare to get him to shut the hell up, but they were way past that now.

"Is there anything you would like to say in response?" Grandpa Argent said, eyeing her carefully.

Charlie opened and closed her mouth a few times, unsure of what to say next. "About that….there's this word 'allegedly'," she said using air quotes. "I'm really fond of it."

"I'm sure you are." He pursed his lips and scanned the file one more time. "There is also the matter of your extracurricular activities," he murmured. "It appears that you aren't involved in any currently, which is off seeing as you pursued a number of them last year. Track team, varsity soccer, academic decathlon, debate team—"

"Whoa, hold on a second!" Stiles interjected. As Grandpa Argent had been going over her list of past accomplishments, his eyes had been getting progressively bigger and more excited. Though when being confronted with Gerard Argent, he ended up looking more pained than anything else. But for some reason the two words 'debate team' broke him. His head snapped up and he looked directly at Charlie. "You were on the _debate team_?!"

"Allegedly," Charlie growled. "I was allegedly on the debate team. You can't prove that."

"I believe you ranked fourth in your age group at the State Championships last year," the elder Argent threw in at the most inconvenient possible time. "Congratulations."

Stiles pressed his lips together firmly, desperately trying to hold back the massive, shit-eating grin that was threatening split across his face. God, the idiot could smile even at the most inappropriate times. Charlie let out a groan and sank even lower in her seat, to the point where she was pretty sure she might just fall out of it. Stiles had started drumming his fingers frantically against the arm rests, like his skin could barely contain his jitteriness. He didn't say anything else, but she could tell that he wasn't about to forget about this any time soon.

Sighing to herself, Charlie faced the white-haired despot head on. "Look, I've been keeping my nose clean since I got here," she mumbled. "No more pranks. I'm now a responsible and fully functional member of society. I'm reformed. You don't have to worry about me anymore. Scout's honor."

"Then why is it that you find yourself in my office for what Mr. Harris described as—" he fished out another piece of paper from the large stack on his desk and grabbed his reading glasses, perching them on the bridge of his nose '—as 'a grievous assault on his person'? A little hyperbolic for a rolled up piece of paper, but I've found that some of the teachers here to have a flair for the dramatic."

"I didn't have anything to do with that," Charlie replied, wrinkling her nose at him and jerking her thumb in the direction of Stiles and Scott. "That was all those two idiots."

Grandpa Argent ignored the accusatory chorus of 'heys!' that emanated from the boys and tapped his finger against his lips thoughtfully. "Then why are you here?"

"I asked to go to the nurse and Harris accused me of trying to ditch," she said simply. "He sent me here."

A weary look crossed Grandpa Argent's face and he took off his glasses all dramatic-like. "I'm going to find this 'Mr. Harris' rather frustrating, aren't I?"

A loud scoff emanated from Stiles's corner of the room. "Not at much as we do," he blurted out.

He came to regret that decision when Grandpa Argent's burning gaze shifted in his direction. Charlie gave an almost audible sigh of relief when she realized that she was no longer the object of the man's scrutiny, but Stiles paled slightly, causing a small pang of regret. Grandpa Argent picked up Charlie's file and placed it back into the drawer next to him before taking a single finger and sliding the other two files across the desk so they rested in front of him.

"Alright let's see here," he drawled out in that impossibly gravelly voice of his. He picked up the first of the two files and peered down at the contents. "Scott McCall. Academically not the most accomplished, but I see you have become quite the star athlete." Charlie leaned forwards, trying to gauge Scott's reaction. He was nodding along passively and refusing to make eye contact. "Mr. Stilinski," he continued. "Oh! Perfect grades, but little to no extracurriculars." He lowered the file raised his eyebrows at Stiles. "Maybe you should try lacrosse."

"He's actually already on the t—" Charlie started to say, but before she could get the full sentence out, Grandpa Argent raised his hand, effectively banishing her capacity to speak.

"Hold on," he said, returning his focus to Scott. "McCall? You're the Scott that was dating my granddaughter.

Scott let out a wheezing breath that kind of made it sound like he had been kicked in the gut. "W—we were dating," he stammered, "b—but not anymore! Not dating. Not seeing any of each other or doing anything w—with each other." He realized the awkwardness of his own wording and squeezed his eyes shut, probably hoping that this was all a dream. When he opened them again the elder Argent was still there, he deflated. "Ugh."

Grandpa Argent was hiding his hand behind his mouth, but the wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes betrayed the amused smile on his face. "Relax, Scott, you look like you're about to crack a cyanide pill with your teeth."

"It was just a hard breakup," Scott mumbled under his breath.

"Well that's too bad," the man murmured. "You seem like a pretty nice kid to me."

"The nicest," Charlie threw in, nodding dramatically.

Leaning back in his chair, Grandpa Argent surveyed the three of them, pressing the fingers of both hands together in an oddly villain-like pose. "Now listen, guys, yes I am the principal, but I really don't want you to think of me as the enemy."

Stiles gave a bitter snort and raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he demanded, his voice oozing sarcasm and shooting Scott a look that clearly read 'do you believe this guy?'.

"However," Grandpa Argent qualified, "this being my first day, I do need to support my teachers. So unfortunately one of you two is going to have to take the fall and stay behind for detention."

It was almost as if they had all coordinated it. All three other sets of eyes turned to Stiles, whose attention was firmly dedicated to picking at his fingernails. When he finally raised his head, he blinked in surprise at all the focus being placed on him. He looked at all their faces in frustration, finally narrowing his eyes at Charlie in a way that clearly said '_et tu, Brute_?'. Charlie pressed her lips together in a thin line and shrugged. '_Take one for the team, dude_.'

Stiles let out a loud scoff and threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Ugh. Fine. I threw the stupid piece of paper at the back of Harris's stupid face." He waved his hands around in a circle. "It was me."

A wide smile split across Gerard's face. "Excellent." He grabbed a pad of yellow paper and scribbled some notes on it in a flowing script that Charlie could barely read before handing it to Stiles. "Mr. Stilinski, you will be reporting to Mr. Harris for detention after classes today."

"Fantastic," Stiles muttered bitterly, shoving the thing in his pocket.

"Alright, gentlemen," Grandpa Argent said, turning to the two boys. "That concludes our business for today."

The two of them jumped to their feet, eager to get the hell out of there, but paused when they realized that Charlie had stayed seated. "What about Charlie?" Scott demanded in confusion.

"Ms. Oswin and I have a few more things to discuss," the man replied. "But the two of you to are free to go."

The two of them stood at the door, unsure of what to do. After a few moments Scott shot Charlie an apologetic wince and wrenched the door open before slipping through it. Stiles, on the other hand, was a little more hesitant. It wasn't until she jerked her head in the direction of the and mouthed the word 'go' that he reached for the doorknob. He slowly pulled the door shut after him, leaving Charlie and Grandpa Argent in the room together.

"Is there, um, it there anything that I can help you with, sir?" she asked lamely.

"Yes," he said with a nod. "You're face was very familiar to me, Ms. Oswin, and I think I know why now. I believe I've seen some photos with you included around my son's home. You're friends with my granddaughter, correct?"

"Um, yeah," Charlie muttered, avoiding all eye contact. "Allison and I are friends."

"Good," he replied with a reassuring smile. "I've only recently reentered Allison's life, and I want to be certain that she is well situated, so I do take particular interest in her friends and the people she chooses to associate with."

It was like somebody had jabbed a needle into her vein and shot pure, distilled, unadulterated panic into her system, setting her nerve endings on fire. She wasn't sure why, but this man terrified her. More even than Peter did. There was a….hollowness to him that filled her with dread, and under his scrutiny was not a place she wanted to be. "Am I under investigation or something?"

A throaty chuckle filled the room. "No, not at all," he replied, waving his hand dismissively. "I just want to take some time to get to know you. Now, I look at a file like yours and it tells me something. You've got all the elements of a leader thrown in here, but all the signs of delinquency as well."

"It's like I said," Charlie repeated. "I've kept my nose clean since I've gotten here."

"Yes you have, more or less," Grandpa Argent agreed. "Though you have been a part of some of the more…..curious incidents that have transpired. But the way things stand now, it appears that you've reached an impasse." He leaned forwards, fixing her under his stern gaze. "What I'm trying to say, Ms. Oswin, is that it appears you have an extraordinary amount of potential. It just needs to be shaped. Molded. And I should hate to see it wasted. So you have a decision to make. Are you going to be the leader or the misfit?"

It was a question Charlie had been asked before. Multiple times. This wasn't the first occasion where a teacher or authority figure had sat her down, had a conversation about her 'behavioral issues' and discussed what would happen if she cleaned up her act. But something felt a bit different about this time. She felt like she was being recruited. Not in the sense that the man in front of her was going to take her under his wing and tell her all about the magical world of werewolves and werewolf hunting, but recruited in the sense that he was trying to plant a seed in her mind. Something that he could possibly and exploit later on, if need be, by establishing a line of trust. Gerard Argent was a fan of the long con. There was one problem with that. Charlie didn't like being put in a box, especially by people who thought they knew her.

"Neither," she answered. "I don't want to be the leader—that's never been appealing to me. And I don't have nearly enough gravitas to get people to actually follow me. I hold no illusions about that fact. I'm going to be the person standing next to the leader making snarky commentary and making sure they don't screw everything up."

Grandpa Argent narrowed his eyes at her curiously. "Well, that is an interesting perspective."

Charlie made a face and shrugged. "I know my own mind."

"Yes, I can see that," he replied. He studied her in silence a few more moments before speaking again. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you and your aunt join my family and me for dinner sometime? That way we can get to know each other under less…..official circumstances."

Charlie swallowed heavily, but forced herself to nod in agreement. "Sure. That sounds….lovely." Clearing her throat, she smiled at him awkwardly. "Soooooo, about the whole 'intent to ditch' thing—"

"Oh, I'm sure Mr. Harris was just over-reacting," Grandpa Argent sighed. "You're free to go visit the nurse now. And if I find a lawn gnome glued to my desk, I'll know where to look first."

Chuckling uncomfortably and breathing out a quick 'thank you', Charlie jumped out of her chair like it was on fire and scrambled towards the door. She should probably have gone for the cool, calm, unworried approach, but she was way too eager to get out of there. She had just spent the last fifteen minutes in a cage with a lion. As soon as he decided to go on the attack, that was it. Charlie practically exploded through the door, breathing a sigh of relief, but that sigh soon turned into a shout as she came face-to-face with a pair of big, light brown eyes blocking her path. The surprise made her jump. "Son of a—Stiles!" she hissed, smacking him in the chest. "What the hell was that?! Are you trying to give me a freaking heart attack?!"

He let out a defensive scoff and planted his hands on his hips, bobbing his head in her direction. "Well, sue me for wanting to make sure you were okay!" he hissed back. Charlie took a deep breath and ran her hands down her face, willing her heart rate to back to normal. All of the sudden Stiles grabbed her arm and directed her further away from the principal's office. "Well?" Stiles prompted. "Are you?"

"Am I what?" Charlie asked stupidly.

"Okay," he reiterated. "Are you okay? I tried to listen in but that guy's voice is so insanely low."

"Oh," Charlie murmured. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. He just….told me I had potential and invited me over to dinner."

Stiles's face scrunched up into a disbelieving and highly perturbed expression. "Okay, one," he said, lifting a finger. "That's super-weird. Two—" he lifted a second finger "—there's no way you're going to that dinner."

Charlie let out a huff and shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket. "If you've got a way to avoid it without alarm bells going off, I'm all ears."

Stiles's mouth fell open and stared absently at the ceiling, racking his brain for ideas. It was a few moments before he swore under his breath. "Nope," he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck. "I got nothing."

"Exactly."

Stiles swore under his breath and wiped at his eyes in frustration before looking around and realizing that they were both standing in a very vacant hallway. "We should probably get back to class. If I give Harris a chance to give me another detention, he's definitely going to take it."

Nodding agreement, Charlie followed them as they wound through the hallways, moving in the general direction of the chemistry room. Neither of them showed any desire to get there quickly. As they walked, Charlie noticed Stiles shooting her more than a few sidelong glances, and they were increasing in frequency. He was making that face—the one where he was really, really trying not to blurt something out and killing himself in the process. "Out with it," Charlie sighed. "Before your brain explodes."

"You were seriously on the _debate team_?" he exclaimed, suddenly sounding oddly giddy. "The debate team? Really?"

"Yes, Stiles," Charlie drawled out, kicking absently at a set of lockers next to her. "I was on the debate team."

"The debate team?" he repeated looking at her pointedly. "You?"

"Yeah," she said, rolling her eyes at him. "Is it surprising to you that I can form clear, concise, and articulate arguments? I think I'm starting to get offended, Stiles."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "You can definitely do all of those things. But, I don't think you're allowed to hit people when you're on the debate team and I know from lots and lots of painful, traumatizing personal experiences that that's how you win most of your arguments." Charlie let out a scandalized scoff and hit Stiles in the shoulder, only this time instead of the typical strangled yowl, it was a cry of victory. He dodged in front of her, blocking the path, and pointed at her emphatically. "See! That's definitely not sanctioned!" He tried to fight back the grimace, but soon enough his face was screwing up into an expression of pain. "Gah! I'll never understand how you can hit so hard with those tiny little arms!"

"Practice," she said, brushing by him primly.

"No, hold on a second," Stiles said, catching up with her. "I don't think we've talked nearly enough about this whole debate championships thing. Firstly, and obviously most importantly, is there a video?"

"Wow would you look at that!" Charlie proclaimed, spinning around and gesturing to the door next to her like Vanna White giving away a vacation package. "We're back at chemistry class. Looks like that question's not gonna get an answer."

"Ugh, boo," Stiles whined, looking back and forth between her and the door. They could already hear the muffled sound of Harris's harsh, bitter voice through the walls. He sighed heavily and frowned down at his watch. "I guess we've only got ten minutes. He can't torture us that much, right?"

"Me?" Charlie said, pointing to herself and blinking innocently. "I'm going to the nurse. Haven't you heard?" She let out a lame, wheezing cough and frowned at him. "I'm sick."

Stiles narrowed his eyes and let his jaw hang open, shaking his head at her. "It's moments like this when I can't decide whether you're awesome or I hate you."

Charlie shot him a smug smile and shrugged her shoulders. "I guess it's one of life's many mysteries." With that, she spun on her heel and began marching down the hallway.

"Enjoy the cramps!" Stiles shouted after her.

"Enjoy the detention!" she shouted back.

She continued to walk down the hallway, but as she got further from the chemistry room, something made her slow down. There was some weight attached to her, forcing her to slow until she stopped. A feeling compelled her to look over her shoulder, and when she did, Stiles was still standing by the door, watching her go. He twitched slightly in surprise when she looked at him, but quickly recovered, smiling and giving her a thumbs up, both of which Charlie returned. And then, with one last nod, he disappeared into the class room.

Crap. Feelings were stupid. Epically stupid. Charlie liked things that made sense, and feelings….they didn't make any sense. Being around Stiles simultaneously made her happy and was a giant pain in the ass. Life was so much easier when she didn't have to bother with them in the first place. It was so much less complicated. But at the same time she couldn't imagine it any other way. There was just this…..empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Like she was missing something, but wasn't sure how to get it. Jesus, she wasn't about to start trying to express herself through poetry, was she? Because that would be her equivalent of hitting rock bottom. No. No moping. Or sulking. Charlie Oswin didn't sulk. She coped. One foot in front of the other, one day at a time, and all those other clichés.

A quick trip to the nurse's office was made and she downed a few Advil to cover all her bases, but after she was done, Charlie didn't head back to chemistry class. No, instead she found herself standing outside the door to the French room, waiting for the bell to ring. They were all chess pieces on a board, moving and responding to threats as they arose, and it was time to make the opening moves. When the bell finally did ring, she watched as the students rushed out, waiting for one particular student with long, brown hair.

"Charlie?" Allison demanded in confusion as she came face-to-face with her friend. "What are you doing here?"

Charlie grabbed her arm and pulled her aside, leveling her with a serious look. "I know you probably still hate me, but we have work to do."

Allison's spine straightened and her jaw jutted out with determination. "What's next?"

**Sorry updates take so long sometimes. I have these ideas for scenes in the future, and I have to stop and write those down sometimes before they fly out of my head. So I'm going to leave you guys with a little teaser of what put a delay on this update. Peter and Charlie have a conversation about the movie 'Titanic' which has surprising relevance to the general plot of this story.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! You guys spoil me so much, but I assure you it is appreciated to an insane degree. Love you all!**


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